


Fortune and Fortitude

by twowritehands



Category: The Eagle | The Eagle of the Ninth - All Media Types
Genre: And angst, Arranged Marriage, M/M, Mpreg, Regency Romance, and more stuff tagged in the chapters as we go, because love traingles, gothic novel, psuedo-Victorian AU, some infedelity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-22
Updated: 2014-04-29
Packaged: 2018-01-09 14:26:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 24
Words: 169,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1147057
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twowritehands/pseuds/twowritehands
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arranged marriage AU set in a pseudo-Victorian world where there are men, women, and fortunate men (aka men who can get pregnant). Fortunate men are treated just as poorly as women as far as rights and equality goes, if not worse. Marcus, though, has been hiding his "inferior gender" in order to be in the military... But now he's pregnant, scorned by his lover, and has to marry someone else ASAP or risk ruining the family name even more than it already is.<br/>Cue the reclusive Lord Esca Cunoval, who will lose his family's estate if he can't pay off it's debts quickly, so he marries Marcus having no clue about the baby on the way. They have a lot to work through before they can be happy together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. SHAME

**Author's Note:**

> So yeah, shocking word count right out of the gate. But the first 3 chapters need posting at once because neurotic writers have reasons....lol

“What little standing the name of Aquila had left after your father finished with it is at present floundering in the mud, Marcus, and the doing is entirely _yours_! I do commend you for proving that the apple falls not far from the tree!”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Capt. Aquila drew up short, greatly sobered by Marcus’s soft and ashamed response to his shouting; the first time in over twenty years the captain had felt the need to raise his voice, and suddenly he regretted he ever did so. The son of Flavius was not the _real_ Flavius, after all.

Marcus stood at the window, the breadth of his shoulders held tense now in his blue morning coat as a muscle jumped in his strong, shaven jaw. The sight reminded Capt. Aquila that the boy he raised could hardly own to being a boy any longer, and had for some time relinquished the role. Shame descended on the elder man for treating his grown nephew like a disobedient child.

That wide, smooth face remaining stoic, Marcus revealed nothing of the hurt that must have been caused him by the mention of his father. (For twenty years Capt. Aquila and his nephew had operated under an unspoken agreement never to make mention of the man; an agreement happily kept by both until presently.)

“Marcus,” Capt. Aquila returned his voice to its usual gentleness with great deliberation, “despite my temper and my disappointment, I do understand.”

Marcus did not make a single move to show he heard. He stood with his back as straight as an iron poker, hands folded neatly behind him, chin up, green eyes fixed on the busy London street outside the townhouse. On the sofa, Marcus’ fragile mother wept into the silence.

More of Capt. Aquila’s anger sloughed off at the sight of Marcus bearing his shame, and the responsibility of his mother’s tears, with greatest remorse--and a certain amount of dignity as well.

“You did not control your passions,” Capt. Aquila continued into the quiet of the room, angry enough to continue speaking, but becoming sympathetic enough to be kinder, “you acted rashly, and now you must pay for it. Such happens to the best of us; perfection remains unreachable to all men. But you chose a most unforgiving situation in which to prove your humanity, Nephew. That is your only fault in this. It would have been infinitely better to blunder in money or in politics before ruining yourself so spectacularly in reputation… and in heart.”

“Yes, Uncle.” This one sounded considerably wetter, tight-throated and, in his profile, Capt. Aquila saw Marcus’ jaw flex again and his throat pulse. In sudden movement, excusing himself with nothing more than a slight nod of his head to his uncle and his mother, he turned--a sharp pivot habitual of military men--and limped from the room.

Harriet, quietly distraught on the sofa, whimpered into her kerchief and began sobbing again. Capt. Aquila gave his widowed sister-in-a-law a squeeze on her thin shoulder and sighed. “He must marry before the summer is out.”

|||

The erratic jolting of the carriage made for a cruel imitation of a cradle’s lullaby, but after such a long journey it achieved the effect well enough; they must have nearly reached Scotland by now. Marcus slumped in his seat, and leveled his droopy-eyed gaze out at the changing scenery, a hand on his abdomen.

He had not quite gotten his head around the events of late; so much had happened so quickly and still so much more was to come. Change fast approached, a complete metamorphosis of his life in every aspect, from his home, to his body, to his heart.

The first two were to never again be in his control. The third he would harden straight through, for its own protection.

Adapt or die, Charles Darwin wrote. (Recently, Marcus enjoyed reading the sciences of nature, and now found himself having to take its advice. Adapt or die.) Perhaps he would name the child Charles, if it was a boy.

On the seat opposite Marcus, Capt. Aquila’s snores were as mild and unobtrusive as his voice. The sight of the old man, sleeping so peacefully with his mouth open, sent a surge of affection through Marcus. He thought he ought to maybe hate his uncle for forcing this marriage on him, but he knew his uncle acted out of love.

 _“The Lord Cunoval of Brigantes_ ,” _Capt._ _Aquila had announced in an almost choked voice of relief. (This was a few mornings previous, over a breakfast as he made his way through a pile of correspondence.) He had eagerly ripped into a particular letter to read it quickly._

_“What of him?” Harriet had asked. Marcus had simply kept eating, refusing to show interest._

_“He’s dying. His estate is in desperate need of funds to clear his debt. His son inherits soon…” Capt. Aquila had beamed and looked up with watery eyes from the letter at Harriet, “and that son has intentions for a fortunate husband!”_

_The lady had gasped, reached over and took Marcus’ hand, squeezing it so tightly that he felt his smallest bones object to the pressure. With her other hand on her heart, she cried to Capt. Aquila, “We are saved!”_

_Marcus had squirmed, freeing his hand and returning his attention to his egg cup and breakfast, “The Lord Cunoval?” He had only heard of the noble in his uncle’s tales of those regiment days long past. Capt. Aquila served with (and befriended most firmly) a man who had then yet to inherit the unexpected title Lord of Brigantes. Capt. Aquila had often reported Cunoval to be a good man and a brave soldier, and beyond this Marcus knew naught; of his son and heir, he knew even less. “I should think a future lord would prefer an accomplished wife to a crippled laying-in fellow.”_

_“Marcus,” Harriet had admonished, taking her son’s cheek in her slender hand. Her eyes were fierce with determination, “You must be married before the season is out, and here falls in our laps a nobleman looking for one of your gender! Please, do not anger God by questioning our blessing.”_

_“I believe I have already angered God,” Marcus had snapped. “Conceiving outside of wed lock, scheming to catch an unsuspecting bridegroom and convince him that this is his child with lies about prematurity—Believe me, Mother, if God wants to strike me down for merely questioning the young Lord Cunoval’s tastes, then we have a very fickle Father in Heaven indeed.”_

_“Marcus,” Capt. Aquila’s voice at the end of the table was calm, the perfect antidote to any outburst. The broil in Marcus’ blood ceased, and he bowed his head in shame as Capt. Aquila continued, “You’re mother speaks truly. This is a blessing better than we could have hoped to receive. Cunoval is nearly in financial ruin and will happily take you for your money alone. However, and to our greatest good luck, you hold even more cards in your hand than that for you are a fruitful gentleman, which will sate both needs of Cunoval: saving the estate with your dowry while, apparently, catering to the tastes of the current heir._

_“After the wedding, Heaven bless us more than we deserve, your fast conception and premature but healthy birth will be seen as a joyous occasion and not a peculiarity, for an heir is of the greatest importance to this lot.” Capt. Aquila wiped his mouth and stood. “I will write to my old friend immediately with news of your recent injury and discharge from the regiment, and your subsequent debut as a mother man. No doubt, we will receive an invitation to dine with him shortly thereafter and you_ will _go. Agreed?”_

_“Yes, Uncle.”_

Presently, Marcus shook Capt. Aquila awake as the carriage drew nearer to Brigantes. On the seat beside Marcus, his mother stirred from her own light slumber. The others shook away their drowsiness as Marcus lowered the carriage window and leaned out to have a better look at the approaching structures. The village was larger than he expected for one this far north. It pleased Marcus to find the townhouses were rows of white-fronted and acceptably furnished dwellings.

The carriage drew to a stop in front of one of the bigger houses, and the Aquila family gratefully unfolded from the carriage seats. Capt. Aquila peered at the house and smiled, nodding at his steward who had hopped down from the back of the carriage. “Yes, yes. This will do superbly; very well done.”

Having yet to receive an answer from the Lord Cunoval regarding Marcus’ debut, Harriet and her brother in law had both agreed that they should take a townhouse in Brigantes during the hunting season, pretending all the while that their sudden close proximity to an heir on the lookout for a fortunate husband was nothing but happenstance.

Harriet and Capt. Aquila hurried inside to inspect the house, but Marcus idly strolled over to give the horses a pat as he waited for the cramps to subside, his leg not likely to handle well on the five or six steps up into the house. Standing in the unfamiliar street as his bags were unloaded and carried in after his companions, Marcus felt absurd.

Eyes on the street watched the strange, unknown newcomers, and movement in windows would be even more curious faces. Marcus resisted the urge to tug on his clothes. He glanced down at the olive green fabric of his waistcoat, the stark gold embroidery around the pockets and buttons, the frilly bits of lace around his cuffs.

_“No,” Marcus had said to his mother three days ago before leaving for London, when she had first presented the outfit to him. “I am not wearing THAT; I should look a fool.”_

_“This is what fortunate gentlemen wear, my heart,” Harriet had replied, “This fashion is all the rage this season. Anthony Stark was wearing green and gold at the—“_

_“I do not give a damn what other rich fortunate gentleman wear. I shall wear what I like and I like what I’m wearing now.”_

_His mother’s eyes had flashed cold, and her chin had hardened, “What you are wearing now are men’s clothes,” she snapped. “But you are NOT a man—as you so evidently displayed to at least one person some weeks ago. If you will let him know what you are, then you will let the world know. You haven’t a choice. Wear it.”_

_Shamed into silence by the obstinacy of his mother, which he had never before witnessed in the whole of two and thirty years, Marcus took the jacket and the others like it she had so kindly purchased for him._

Now he attempted to hide behind the horses as the locals paused in little groups in the lanes and whispered to one another, casting looks at him. He knew what they were saying—he might have been wearing the latest, most expensive fairer fashions, but such designs were certainly not meant to be worn by a man over six feet tall and muscled like the statues in antiquity; he was supposed to be slender, graceful, beautiful. What an outrageous sight he must be.

Feeling heat in his cheeks, Marcus decided his leg had gained circulation enough to make the climb to the front door so he followed the last of the luggage inside.

|||

Life now was to be nothing but restless hours of absolutely nothing to do but scheme to catch a husband. Good Lord, how could women stand it?

Marcus spent two days pacing in his new rooms and being grumpy. He would prefer to be back in London, or better yet back with his regiment. He felt ridiculous being here, planting himself in the path of a man in search of a procreate husband. His motive must be clear to all.

Capt. Aquila spent two days reading the paper, playing at chess, smoking his pipe and generally not looking as stressed as Harriet who stood at windows, her thin frame in a fine gown, pearls in her dark hair, her hand pressed to her stomach, her eyes closed, her breathing shallow as she prayed.

Their tomb-like waiting was broken on the third day when Harriet—having attended Church without the company of her brother-in-law or her son—accepted an invitation to have tea with the neighbors and returned home with thin lips and a straight spine, chin up (once again in that uncharacteristically obstinate way which Marcus’ disgraceful pregnancy had lately injected into her) to inform them that there was nothing for it, they must all return to London immediately.

When questioned, her answer was simply that she had just heard a great deal about the Cunoval family. “They are recluses!” she cried, “No one _ever_ receives an invitation to join them for as much as a biscuit! It has been well near ten years since anyone of Society has seen even the front garden of that house! The gate, they say, only opens for business regarding the old man’s health or matters of the estate!”

Grumbling almost to herself, she scathed, “a great deal to do with horses, I’m told. Well, to prefer great cumbersome and smelly beasts over refined company is beyond my capacity of understanding.”

She started to pack, shot a sharp look Capt. Aquila’s way, “Mark my words, brother. If you intend to make us stay here and wait on your old friend to extend an invitation, my son will have his child in the cellar of this _horribly_ _plain_ old house before anyone with the name of Cunoval even realizes we’re in town!”

“For goodness sake, my dear,” cried Capt. Aquila, calmly humored, “You needn’t work yourself into such a state. All will be well.” He put on his most reassuring smile, a tilt in his grey head, a light touch to Harriet’s shoulder. “Tatty Tatum, you must trust me and remain optimistic--” Harriet threw open a trunk here with a few sharp words about what good it had done her to trust the men in her life thus far and upon that speech, Capt. Aquila lost all patience with her, “I say, stop packing at once and _listen to me_ , you panicky woman!”

“There is no reason to stay!” she declared with fervor, “The Cunoval heir is the only man in this village in want of a fortunate husband. I am told there are no less than _five_ unmarried fortunates, yet Cunoval will see none of them! He shows no interest! We cannot continue to hide my son away in this godforsaken place! We must return to London immediately and surround him with the appropriate bachelors and _increase_ his chances of finding someone in time!”

Her anxiety started to tingle in Marcus’ gut, making him feel the need to start packing as well. She was completely correct. Staying here hoping to catch the eye of a disinterested gentleman was a waste of precious time. If Marcus was not married—or at the least engaged—soon, he would be ruined. Nothing more than another Capt. Aquila to feed the rumor mill with salacious gossip.

Capt. Aquila stayed his sister-in-law’s hands and guided her to sit on the couch, saying firmly, “We will stay a week longer.”

“Uncle—“ Marcus began but the older man silenced him with a fierce look from under his bushy white eyebrows and continued.

“If what your mother says is true, perhaps I will risk imposing myself upon them without invitation. Then, surely, things will go from there. Our presence, once made known to them, will not go ignored.”

“And if it is?”

Capt. Aquila blinked slowly at Marcus and replied, “Then we will rush straight to London and not rest until you have an agreement with the first overly vain, gambling blackguard who has no interest in men, but who wants our money enough to make vows to God for it.”

The idea of marrying such a person put an uncomfortable twist in Marcus’ stomach, and he looked at his boots, shamed that he had put himself into such a position that those he loved would be willing to give him away for so cheap a price.

For the first time since confessing his condition, Marcus considered not marrying just to cover it up. Surely his money--an enormous amount by all standards--entitled him to live as he chose to live, allowed him to never have to subject himself to another. But almost instantly he dismissed this possibility, for a bastard was a bastard no matter his family’s income, and more than that an _Aquila_ bastard would be the pinnacle of ignominy, a laughing stock.

A curl of bitterness and contempt bloomed in Marcus’ gut. If only he had a father like everyone else (respectable, amiable, _boring_ ) then he would be free to shock all of London to the best of his abilities. As it was, he could only strive to uphold what little standing his family had remaining. And so marriage it would be.

Anger cooled Capt. Aquila’s voice as he addressed Harriet, “Lord Cunoval’s son may very well be a solitary character, but I care not. He has gone so far as to make the announcement that he requires a fortunate husband; in that way, at least, we know that, given time, he will certainly find something in Marcus to like other than his money. Forgive me for being unwilling to so easily dismiss a chance for my nephew to marry a man who can love him rather than use him.”

|||

After bravely walking up to the big lonely house on the hill, Capt. Aquila returned after lunch with a smile and the news that he had left his card with the butler. “We will not be ignored from here onward; you have my word.”

But he and Marcus spent another two days attempting to keep Harriet’s nerves in check, until finally, _finally_ , an invitation to dine with the Lord Cunoval arrived, and Harriet was so overcome with relief that she was forced to decline and remain behind while Marcus and his uncle climbed into the carriage.

The appropriate clothes were once again a necessity, which Marcus would rather have done without: a burgundy jacket with silver trimmings and a sage green cravat pinned with a diamond broach. Next to his uncle’s plain suit, he was a peacock with gaudy plumage spread wide; and from the moment Marcus stepped outside, he felt eyes on him.

They were taken up to Brigantes Abbey, a frightfully large and beautiful house atop the hill, the home of Lord Cunoval and his son.

The dark stone rose in three levels, stretched out in several wings. Ivy grew on the walls in some places. Mist hung in the shadows around the foundation stones of the eastern walls, those nearest to the streams where willows bowed and swayed in the breeze… It struck Marcus as magical, and then it struck him as a prison. Capt. Aquila looked out at its splendor and then set kind blue eyes on his nephew.

“Remember, you must win him over, Marcus. Make yourself into whatever he wants so that he will propose. Then court him as you’ve never courted another, sweep him off his feet and convince him to have the wedding quickly—but do not let on your desperation. Always hold to propriety and correctness; never let him know that you _need_ a short engagement. What you must do is let him believe you simply cannot wait to be his in body and soul--“

“Yes, Uncle,” Marcus cut in through his teeth. “You forget that I am no stranger in leading men to want me.”

To his satisfaction, his uncle’s old, lined face flushed red beneath his stark white hair, and he looked away. Marcus’ triumph was slightly cut down, however, by his own blush. His words brought to mind memories of that night—a month ago now—when he had surrendered to his heart and learned the feeling of fullness and deepest love… ( _Oh, Marcus, my sweet, how glorious you feel in my hands_ )only to have it all break apart upon the discovery of the child they made and his lover’s aversion to it. ( _Your self-serving lies have ensnared me in a trap, Marcus. One that will ruin me if this gets out--_ )

Marcus’ jaw tightened, and his eyes pricked sharply with tears, but he pushed it all down, reminded his heart to harden itself. He followed his uncle from the carriage and into the gloomy house.

|||

Lord Cunoval had reached an advanced age, much older than Capt. Aquila, and infinitely frailer. Brittle bones had confined him to a chair and age had deprived him of good hearing. The nobleman’s health was so poor that the need of a constant nurse had brought to the house a plain but kind woman, in her thirties and unmarried, introduced as Nurse Sasstica. She stood behind his chair, grey dress and apron, hair tucked into a white cap.

The old man and his nurse were the only faces in the parlor--the heir not to be seen. This at once distressed Marcus as well as brought him some modicum of relief, for upon crossing the innately marbled front hall (with its stunning Greek statues, vivid paintings of classical scenes, and echoing metronome of a clock) he had been struck with the most crippling anxiety. The source was the way the butler had barely masked a double-take upon first setting eyes on the union of Marcus’s size and clothes. It was then that the fortunate soldier had realized that this would mark his first occasion of meeting a man and being introduced as _Fortunate Aquila_ , and a most disturbing thought had wormed into his mind. _What if he laughs at me_?

It did not seem an altogether absurd prediction. Men, after all, wanted their fortunate husbands to be docile and slender and beautiful. A man did not want what would no doubt be more muscle tone than he was capable of, what would no doubt be a height taller than his own, what would no doubt be more worldly and more experienced than he, with a humor far coarser than he was accustomed to, for Marcus had always been these things when compared to other men.

As a soldier, such distinctions had earned him popularity. But as a fortunate, these traits were unsavory, insurance towards rejection time and time again. Perhaps such a thought should have already occurred to Marcus, but it had not, and he felt wholly unprepared to face such a plight so immediately.

But God’s kindness shone on Marcus by ensuring the heir’s presence was employed elsewhere at the present moment, giving him time to regain his nerve and prepare for the worst possible reception from this mysterious nobleman.

After the old man introduced his nurse with a fond pat on her hand, it was Capt. Aquila’s turn to introduce his nephew, and the old man peered up at Marcus and shouted, “YOU’RE TOO TALL TO BE A TWINK!”

Marcus drew in short breath and looked around to Nurse Sasstica, but the woman must have frequently heard it and other words far worse, for she did not seem to be offended by the speech, which made even the soldier uncomfortable. He was made glad his mother stayed behind; such language would surely undo her composure on the matter.

Always the first to smooth over an awkward situation, Capt. Aquila chortled and leaned forward a little as he raised his voice for his retired superior officer, “It is true that Marcus does not fit the physical attributes common of the fortunate men, but his size and strength will only aid him in producing hardy sons!”

“HE’S OLDER THAN A DEBUTANT!”

Capt. Aquila’s eyes darted to Marcus, and he grinned, explained lowly, “I’ve already related your history to him in my letter. Either someone did not read him the whole thing or he’s forgotten.”

“WHAT’S THAT AQUILA? YOU’RE GOING TO HAVE TO SPEAK UP!”

“He’s two and thirty, Your Lordship,” Capt. Aquila readily repeated with a smile, “He did not debut as a fortunate gentleman at the proper age because he wished to serve as you and I and his father have done. How else do you think he managed to become a captain in Her Royal Majesty’s infantry if he did not keep his fruitfulness a secret?”

“CAPTAIN! WELL BLESS MY SOUL—DISCHARGED, ARE YOU, SON?”

“Honorably, sir,” Marcus answered loudly, “For my leg, not for discovery of my fruitfulness.” For a moment, with the old man cackling at him and the nurse quietly studying him with subtle bemusement, Marcus was about to continue with a reassurance that he had never dressed this fairly until his debut—but that need not be explained, it only felt that way. He discreetly tugged at the pretty clothes, wishing them replaced by his familiar wardrobe.

Lord Cunoval’s laugh was wheezy, his smile wide, and his sagging eyes shiny. It sounded like all breath was rushing out of him in a never ending stream and Marcus feared the man may actually start turning blue but then he shouted, “SO YOU PULLED ONE OVER ON THEM ALL THE WAY THROUGH IT! GOOD FOR YOU!”

Marcus was relieved that the old man found humor in his deceptions. Many a solider would now forever disdain Marcus for his lies. Fortunate gentlemen were not allowed in the army; the public proclaimed this to be because they were vessels of life such as women and so could not be expected to conduct war. The real reason, Marcus believed, was because accidental pregnancies (like his now) would be rampant if fortunate men lived in soldier’s barracks and naval ships.

Marcus’ chest tightened as he recalled the expression on his lover’s face, the horror and the anger, the venom in his voice; _your self-serving lies have ensnared me in a trap, Marcus. One that will ruin me and my name if this gets out. I am going now. I will never come to visit you again and you will never seek to contact me. Are we clear_?

“I WISH I COULD HAVE SEEN THE QUEEN’S FACE WHEN SHE HEARD ONE OF HER FINEST CAPTAINS WAS A TWINK THE WHOLE TIME!”

Ripped from his most painful memory, Marcus was most surprised to find that he could not help but laugh along with his uncle and the old wheezing man—and even the nurse who allowed herself a grin--Despite it all, sometimes Marcus found pride in how long he kept his secret.

Capt. Aquila laughed as well, and he said, “As you can imagine, Marcus has received all manner of reactions from military men since he officially debuted. Yet he has borne them all graciously.” Capt. Aquila looked truly proud as he smiled at Marcus. The younger man had not seen that smile since before delivering the news of his pregnancy, and it warmed him to see it now.

The old man fell into a coughing fit, and then he glared at the clock for a moment before asking Capt. Aquila to tell the time with his “young eyes”. Marcus’ uncle read out the hour and, with wheezing breath, Lord Cunoval twisted to request his nurse to “Fetch Esca.”

To Capt. Aquila, Lord Cunoval shook his head, “I REQUESTED HIS PRESENCE HOURS AGO. HE MUST BE RIDING. I CANNOT KEEP HIM OFF A HORSE EVEN FOR A THUNDERSTORM!”

|||

The conversation had moved on through the weather and family updates, and Marcus was mostly through the plate of biscuits (he was eating for two now, and found it not at all a difficult task) when the sitting room door opened forcefully and closed just as loudly behind the sudden presence of one who must have been none other than Esca Cunoval.

Marcus and Capt. Aquila rushed to stand in greeting. Cheek stuffed with biscuit, crumbs on his cravat, Marcus stared.

Esca Cunoval was _short_ and quite small in stature. His severe expression consisted of sharp angles and something about it reminded Marcus of a deer. Perhaps the ears. Yes, they stuck out. Perhaps, also, the unsmiling nature of the whole face; he was expressionless but not unkindly so—only wary, just as a wild animal.

He wore riding clothes, plain blue and black, a white cravat, mud-splashed boots, a well-worn cloak still about his shoulders as if he had intended to be straight back out into the weather after only a moment in this room with his father’s friends.

Esca’s eyes were dark somewhere between grey and blue, his blond hair burning bronze in the sunlight from the window. In size and beauty, and because his hips were lady-like in slenderness, Marcus would have declared the heir fruitful, except that the rest of his frame appeared hardened with lean muscles under his clothing, his shoulders were far too broad, arms too strong, and chin prickly with a neat, trimmed beard.

Marcus quickly chewed and swallowed his biscuits.

“ESCA, THIS IS CAPT. AQUILA, AN OLD FRIEND OF MINE FROM MY REGIMENT DAYS.” Esca nodded curtly to Capt. Aquila but his eyes instantly fixed on Marcus, burning like spots of dark fire as the old man shouted, “AND THIS IS AQUILA’S NEPHEW AND HEIR, _FORTUNATE_ CAPTAIN MARCUS AQUILA.”

Marcus frowned at the contradiction in titles, but his frown twisted into a grin, because he _was_ both a captain _and_ a fortunate gentleman; only truth could be so strange. He did not know if he liked it or not, _Fortunate Captain Aquila_. It sounded like the title for some Dickensian hero who triumphed over the villains after all manner of adventures and strife…

These thoughts were but a moment in Marcus’ mind as he gave a bow, not breaking eye contact with Esca Cunoval whilst putting a little inviting smile on his lips. He would play the games his uncle wanted him to play. Due to his father’s exploits of several years earlier, Marcus had no better option; English society only tolerated one scandal per family. If the Aquila heir left the militia and debuted as a fruitful man just in time to produce an illegitimate child, they would have to move to Italy.

There was a definite pause in the room, which was both the older gentlemen watching the younger two eagerly, hoping to see the connection that would make the union happen with swift ease. Capt. Aquila wanted it for the cover-up of Marcus’ ruin. Lord Cunoval wanted it for the money. Marcus did not want it at all, but he would take it. Esca—it was unclear what Esca felt about all of this.

The silence stretched on uncomfortably for Marcus. He felt himself to be a bug under a scope, assessed for categorization. He watched those hard stormy eyes measure the width of his shoulders, the length of his arms, the shape of his face. They swept up and down Marcus’s entire body three times shoulder’s to toes —taking in the colorful and decorative fabric of his clothes, the diamond tie tack glittering at his throat—before finding his eyes.

Finally the heir moved, but it was just to tilt his head--bronze hair flashing fiery in the sunlight-- as he looked to his father, raised his brow with a very surprising smile. It was bright and full, reshaping his cold face into something pleasant. He spoke in the appropriate volume to be heard with deaf ears, hands rising to unclasp his cloak, “Shall we dine, Father?”

“YES LET’S!”


	2. Courtship

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case you missed the Tony Stark reference in chapter one, we will be borrowing names and faces from other fandoms instead of coming up with boring OCs. In this chapter, BBC Sherlock. There is absolutely no need to have seen that show to follow this.

Esca Cunoval had a very direct gaze. Marcus tried not to fidget under it. Never in his life had Marcus been looked at so much as he had been since arriving in Brigantes village, but Esca--in just a few moments of acquaintance--had already out-stared his entire county.

Marcus wondered what the nobleman was thinking of as his gaze lingered on him so steadily; of course, Marcus had not a clue, and could only hope they were good thoughts. Surely if Esca thought him to be an absurd representation of the fairer male sex then he would have hinted at such? But he did no such thing. He only looked, and looked, and _looked_.

Esca must have been struggling to unite the idea of a fortunate man with the image of this soldier in pretty clothes before him, an understandable dilemma.

In the expansive dining room, footmen stood at attention and pushed chairs under their legs when they sat at the table. Marcus was all too aware that he dwarfed most of these men, who managed to look so manly in their domestic service uniforms, reminiscent of soldiers, while _he_ was dressed so very prettily despite his masculinity; he certainly did not need their quiet gazes tracking him through the room, their barely repressed smirks of bewilderment, their traded half-glances to one another.

Capt. Aquila, the old Lord Cunoval, and Nurse Sasstica took seats at one end of the large dining table, surreptitiously leaving Marcus and Esca at the other, allowing them something like privacy as the older men began reminiscing, shouting about stories of their youth as adventurous soldiers. The nurse listened with a smile and boldly put forward questions of her own, while at their private end of the table, neither the gentleman or the fortunate one spoke.

Marcus ate, feeling Esca’s eyes on him—and still the eyes of the footmen as they waited to be of need, no doubt straining to hear every word the freak might say—and he idly wondered if he would be dining in this room for the rest of his life, learning the names of these servants, coming to recognize their faces as belonging to his home...

“I am told you were a soldier, and a captain, no less,” Esca said at last. He emphasized the name with obvious intrigue, “ _Frtnt. Cpt. Aquila_.”

Marcus chuckled and barely needed to force the sound. “I feel obliged to point out to you that it has only been but half the hour since I have heard _both_ titles at once in my formal address.” He looked down the table at the old man, who was once again pushing all of his breath out in that long deep wheeze of a laugh.

Esca glanced at his father, grinning. “Now it is my obligation to point out to you that he will know you by no other title. He enjoys his contradictions, my father; he means no offense.”

“None taken. I am proud of both my service to the Queen and my fruitfulness.”

“Yet you hid your gender. A most unusual thing to do with an attribute you are proud of, is it not?”

Marcus hoped his anger stayed in check as he delivered his practiced answer to a question that had been leveled at him on several occasions since his recent debut. “I am from a long line of soldiers, nothing else would suit me but to serve as my father did, Your Lordship.”

“You must call me Esca,” he said promptly. It was a little alarming, the way Esca looked and _looked_ and spoke so kindly without a smile on his lips or even in his eyes. Such fierce, stormy eyes; always watching.

Marcus gave a smile and returned, “Then let me be Marcus to you.”

Esca nodded with slight color to his cheeks (for Marcus had injected great warmth into his voice) and the nobleman returned his focus to cutting up his meat. He spoke again after he had chewed and swallowed a bite, “Your discharge was from an injury.”

“My leg; I caught a ball in the thigh, and it greatly wounded the femur.”

“Battle is a very ugly thing, or so I am told.”

“Then you have been told correctly.”

“But I should still like to hear stories of your captaincy; I know all of my father’s tales back to front and, please do not repeat it to him, but I’ve grown to find them frightfully boring. Most of them are peacetime anecdotes of what it is like to live in barracks.”

Marcus pushed out a laugh and leaned closer, “Well, I would tell you of my last battle, but I do not remember most of it.”

“How about your first, then?” Esca asked.

Marcus frowned in thought and then easily confessed, “Marching out, I was so frightened I was ill all over the boots of the man beside me.”

Unmistakable humor lit in Esca’s eye, but still no smile, “You do not strike me as so shakable.”

“Perhaps not now, after all that I have seen. But I was only eighteen then, and you must allow me to have been quite the innocent.”

“Eighteen! You enlisted young.”

“I was eager. As a boy, did you not want to be a soldier like your father?”

“My interest was always in the stables,” Esca easily confessed, “Before we lost my elder brothers, I had plans to go to the Middle East and breed Arabian stallions. Alas, I will be Lord of Brigantes now…” Marcus could see a startling depth of sorrow in those grey eyes, but the nobleman rose out of it and kept the conversation light, asking Marcus to reveal more of his past.

Marcus related the events of his life and managed to leave the majority of his painful memories--his father, or his lover--out of it. Thusly put, it was a short tale and depicted him to be a great deal more modest than he knew himself capable of being. But modesty seemed to please the heir of Brigantes, and so modest he must become.

|||

Tired of speaking of himself, tired of straining all corners of thought in search of anything remotely unadventurous about himself to talk about, tired of being wary of footmen listening to him flirt with a man, tired of pretending that he wanted to do more than curl up in his bed and not speak to anyone until everything was back to the way it was, Marcus felt happy relief when the night drew to a close, and he and his uncle left for their own house.

Capt. Aquila fell into step with Marcus on the way through the vast marble entrance hall and beamed at him, murmured, “Very well done, Nephew.”

Marcus’ uncle would have seen even from the other end of the table that Esca had been enthralled and humored as Marcus did most of the talking. And now at the end of the night, as the Aquila duo headed for their waiting carriage, the man of their schemes appeared and brought Marcus to a stop before he made the bottom most step of the house.

“Can you still ride?” Esca asked.

“Oh, yes,” Marcus pretended that riding was of great importance to him. He did enjoy it, but other things held his attention faster than beasts of burden, even the honorable ones such as horses.

“Then you should join us for the hunt tomorrow,” Esca said up at him, with kindness behind his bright smile.

“I would be delighted,” Marcus accepted, again using the same warmth with which he had painted a blush onto Esca earlier. Esca started walking backwards, smiling a wide, impish smile, and bowed his head only a little.

“Until tomorrow, Marcus.”

Marcus bowed his head lowly in return—then promptly panicked upon realizing it was the wrong bow for a fortunate man to make, and with his head still down, he too-quickly tucked one foot behind the other on its toes, but with his weight all on his bad leg so suddenly he nearly lost his balance before he could dip. There was no hope that Esca had not seen the correction and the monstrous wobble; it would have been better staying with his original bow. Marcus instantly felt a fool and turned away without a look at Esca as he hastily climbed into the carriage.

|||

The hunt brought a fresh new day, as well as the most excitement Marcus had had since his discharge (with the exception of the visit from his friend which had put him in his condition). They were in a group of ten. The guests were those of the highest standing in local Society, ages varying from teenaged to late forties, and all of them aflutter with the excitement of having been invited to Brigantes Abbey.

More than once, Marcus heard a comment that it was about time Cunoval did something like this—for all had nearly forgotten they even shared a county with nobility, having never before been invited to enjoy the perks of such close proximity to so eminent a title.

Again, Marcus had to wear what his gender was expected to wear and, again, he felt overly exposed.

 _After the success of their first dinner with Cunoval, his mother had forced him to try on the same three riding outfits over and over again in preparation for the hunt until she had decided on the one with a white jacket, white and grey plaid pants, and a touch of pale green in the stitching. “Because,” she had said, “the green brings out your eyes and the white gives the impression of purity_.”

_“What does the lace do?” Marcus had grumbled miserably, tugging at the godforsaken bits of lace at the lapels and receiving a sharp slap to the knuckles for it._

But well-bred horses, clever dogs, and charming people made a joyous event when married with bright sun, a pleasant breeze, and well-used trails filled with exciting jumps through the woods. In the heat of the chase, Marcus forgot to be miserable.

Esca proved truly a fine rider, presenting a challenge for Marcus just to keep up with him. When the fox was dead, Esca drew his horse up next to Marcus through the pack of excited dogs, panting and smiling, face flushed red with exercise and mirth. “So Appleseed is a good choice after all—you handle him well.”

Marcus’ horse, a feisty young stallion, which he had been warned was temperamental (the precise reason Marcus had chosen him in the end), tossed his starred head and the ex-soldier gave the beast a pat on the neck, “Told you he wouldn’t be anything I couldn’t handle.”

“I apologize for doubting you—it is only that I have seen riders as practiced as myself thrown by him; he is very particular.”

“As am I,” Marcus replied. No one else was near enough to them, so Marcus took the liberty to make his voice warm in the way Esca had unconsciously demonstrated great enjoyment of. “But there is nothing wrong with knowing what you like and accepting nothing less. I insist that everyone should live by such standards.”

Esca’s horse shifted closer to Marcus’ and suddenly they were near enough to touch. Marcus saw Esca’s eyes drop down his broad and decorated torso, down one of his strong, plaid-covered thighs gripping the horse, the leg that Esca could drop a hand onto if he should wish it, they were that near--but then Esca’s stormy gaze darted tactfully out to the other riders, hands kept to the reins.

Capt. Aquila, acting as Marcus’ chaperone, made it to them at that moment—having taken the long way around an easy jump—and he cheerily asked Esca if they should return to the house now, which all three did at an easier pace. With the audience of uncle riding alongside them, Marcus could not find the nerve to say anything that might tempt Esca, but it was just as well, for the nobleman seemed perfectly content to ride in silence.

|||

Back in the gardens of Brigantes Abbey, the number of the hunting party doubled as they were joined by more women and children to picnic out in the meadows.

As the fresh blood in this county’s Society, Marcus was descended upon by everyone. He met so many people he could not keep the names straight, and when he found that he had lost Esca somewhere in the crowd, he became quietly distraught and did not listen to a word from the gentleman speaking to him.

Mr. Watson was the name, but Marcus could say nothing else definitively about him; he did not even know what they were talking about--but the conversation carried on regardless. Marcus’ answers were cut straight from books on etiquette and manners, and were enough to keep the fellow talking while Marcus slowly began to panic, scanning the crowd and still not seeing his target.

_How am I to woo when he has disappeared?_

“Have you lost someone, Frtnt. Captain?”

Marcus snapped his attention guiltily back to his company. Mr. Watson stood several inches shorter than Marcus, but seemed nearly as strong in the shoulders, snow-white skin beneath black curls that swept neatly out of a pair of greyish blue, beady eyes that only served to complete the picture of some gothic vampire. “Apologies. Please, continue. You were saying…”

“I was simply reliving the hunt, Frtnt. Captain.”

“Yes, of course. Very exciting ride.”

“Hmm,” Mr. Watson said with a frown. To Marcus’ horror, it seemed as if the gentleman would comment outright on the rudeness of Marcus’ failed attention, but then a small voice broke into the conversation from below their elbows.

“Summy! Look! I have a baby bird!”

Marcus startled at the very near presence of a child. The young boy was no more than six or seven years of age--a shock of black curls, a very round face--and cupped gently in his hands was a bird’s egg. Marcus was greatly confused why this child should mistake either of them for his fortunate father until Mr. Watson’s face lit up, and he stooped to be on level with the child. “Hamish, where did you find that?”

“It was in a nest in that tree, summy, that big one over there!”

“Where is your father?” Mr. Watson—evidently the Frtnt. Mr. Watson—twisted, spotted someone and shouted in his superbly deep voice, very mannishly, “John! You let him climb a tree!”

“Yes, Sherlock, I was there, I know,” was the easy reply from the gentleman who walked up with a greatly relaxed attitude. Where Sherlock was sharp and rather like a vampire, John was stocky and strong with rounder edges, overall cuddly. “He did really well, too; a man near grown if ever I saw one, eh, Hamish?”

“Nonsense, he’s a baby,” returned Frtnt. Watson’s sharp voice, “And look at the state of his _clothes_ , John! And the egg! Now the mother will never see to it. It’s dead.”

“We’ll see to it, won’t we Hamish? Nature project. Oh, excuse me. Dr. Watson,” John introduced himself to Marcus, extending a hand to shake. “You are?” he asked as Marcus shook the hand firmly.

“This is Frtnt. Captain Aquila, John,” Sherlock said, amused by the title and showing it. “The heir of a friend of the old man’s.” By _the old man_ he meant the Lord Cunoval, Marcus had learned that such was what everyone one in the village called him with no disrespect.

Dr. Watson and his beautiful but still quite manly— _and wearing men’s clothes_ —fortunate husband stood and stared at Marcus’ fish-like gaping until the ex-soldier remembered his manners. Marcus cleared his throat and said to Sherlock, “Forgive me; I must not have caught your title, Frtnt. Watson. This has thrown me.”

Sherlock preened with pride. “You did not miss my title; I did not give it.”

“Sherly,” the doctor said tiredly.

“I just wanted to show him that he isn’t the only fortunate fellow who can get away with passing as a man—though, you never will pass again in lace as pretty as that.”

Marcus looked down at the lapels of his riding jacket, face flaring but before he could think of what to say, Sherlock had moved on, asking them both, “And I did well as a man, didn’t I? _Just_ like at University. That is how John and I met, Frtnt. Captain, at Cambridge where I successfully fooled the institution!”

“You didn’t do _too_ well, Sherly,” John said knowingly. The pair laughed and Marcus was left out of it. Sherlock quickly shared the joke.

“Oh, yes! You are new here and thus wouldn’t know the rumors about John and myself. Quite _scandalous_ , those rumors.”

“All true,” John said mildly.

“With one or two outlandish details, I assure you,” Sherlock sounded bored but proud at the same time, “But in essence, yes. Truthfully I did not finish my education. Your mathematical abilities will explain my meaning further when I mention that I am three and twenty and my handsome Hamish here is already six.”

“Only a year at Cambridge?” Marcus asked, eyebrows rising as he realized that the child before him must have been conceived in a dormitory quite by accident in a situation frightfully similar to himself and his friend. Only with a happy ending, apparently.

_You will not seek to contact me again. Are we clear?_

Marcus found himself outrageously furious with the kind-faced Dr. Watson and his almost-passing-as-a-man fortunate husband. Why should they get to be happy when he could not be?

Oblivious to Marcus’ emotional upheaval, Sherlock sighed and looked far away into memory. “But what a year! John and I often talk of how surprising it is that I lasted even that long. I blame the rum. Put us right out of our heads—and into John’s bed.”

“Sherlock,” John said again, tiredly. Clearly, he was well past getting too shaken-up by his husband’s lack of propriety. Sherlock did not even seem to hear John as he continued, “Our hats go to you, Frtnt. Captain, for keeping your head down for—how long did you serve?”

“Fifteen years.”

John whistled, eyes flying round. “Fifteen years. Good job, mate.”

Sherlock agreed and continued, “But now, of course, he’s looking to settle down. And we are quite in his way. You are looking for Lord Esca, are you not?”

“I--“

The man’s face split into a knowing grin, “You won’t find him in the crowds, I’m afraid. The young lord of Brigantes is far too good to socialize with the likes of us.”

“Sherlock!” John was sharper now, and gave Marcus an apologetic look even as Sherlock defended himself.

“What? Tis no great secret that Esca Cunoval never condescends to speak to someone unless he _has_ to do so. Anyway, Frtnt. Captain, I believe at present you’ll find Lord Esca is seeing to the old man.”

Sherlock nodded up the hill to a shady oak tree, and John moved them beyond the awkwardness by kindly giving Marcus an out, “Perhaps you will like to as well?”

“Yes, thank you. Excuse me.”

Marcus climbed the hill slowly, leaving behind the Watsons gratefully, but with a smile despite it all. He had until now thought himself to be the only fortunate gentleman who ever attempted to hide his gender, and he was charmed to find another in the group, a lack of propriety in him or not. Perhaps Sherlock would become a friend if Marcus stayed here…

The ex-soldier did not fail to notice how the eyes of those he passed tracked him, appraised his handsomeness, his lack of grace as he moved. When the same people appraised other fortunate men or women, their kind smiles were polite and approving, not worn as masks to cover up doubt or bewilderment, or laughter.

Esca met Marcus halfway down the hill. Behind him, the old man slept in his chair and Nurse Sasstica read a book against the trunk of the tree. Esca held a folded checkered blanket on one arm.

“Would you like to sit?”

“Yes, thank you,” Marcus said. “How is your father?”

“He is well, thank you.”

|||

“Forgive me,” Esca said after Marcus playfully called him out of his direct gazing, having let it go on for nearly an hour. Esca did not look away, however, as he explained, “I find you most extraordinary for a mother man. I am half inclined to believe you are one of Sherlock Watson’s master pranks against me and are not really fruitful at all.”

Marcus grinned, “Ah, Sherlock Watson, I just met him. What an interesting character.”

Esca grimaced, “That’s a kindness to say so soon. Sherlock is something of an acquired taste. I’ve known him the whole of my life and have only _recently_ taken a liking to him. Dr. Watson has done wonders to calm him down into something manageable.”

Marcus and Esca laughed, looking down at the Watson family fretting over the bird’s egg, using a cravat to fold into a surrogate nest.

“Yes,” Esca’s voice was pensive, “Sherlock Watson played his little trick on Cambridge and nearly got away with it. But he is not so interesting a character as the _Frtnt. Cpt. Aquila_ , I assure you. How surprising Brigantes Abbey should feel so suddenly overrun with tricksters.”

Esca stared unforgivably once more, and Marcus forced himself to look over and meet the gaze head on, “The changeable condition happens in many more like me than you would believe. Most keep it secret, for it is shameful to be of the softer sexes but hold no shape to their form.”

“Was it shame that drove you to keep it secret?”

“No, only desire to hold rank in the regiment.”

“Ah. One dream achieved so you’re on to the next, then, I suppose.”

 _Not at all,_ Marcus thought even as he said, “Precisely.”

“Retirement,” Esca continued, then with a nod down to the Watsons, “perhaps even a family?”

“I have always dreamed of a son.” In truth, Marcus had never considered children, for he had always thought he would make a life career out of the regiment, perhaps someday die honorably in duty. Alas, injury, discharge, and now pregnancy had changed all of that. He spoke now of a desire for a son only because the Brigantes title needed one.

Esca continued to look at him in a long silence, and finally averted his eyes down to the meadow. Marcus braved to lean over on an elbow, putting them closer on the blanket, to ask, “And what has driven you to remain a bachelor this long, Esca?”

“The affections of women have never appealed to me,” Esca replied, still gazing down at the group scattered in the meadow. “And I find that the fortunate gentlemen of my acquaintance fair little better.”

There were a handful of them present for the hunt today. With the exception of Sherlock Watson, they were small, thin; softened by the gentler lives lived by their gender and all of them taught to employ pretty little mannerisms near like a woman.

Now that Marcus knew better, he saw some of the grace found in lovely men within Sherlock’s frame as he dashed around after his young son in some kind of game. Only his broad shoulders, thick upper arms and men’s clothes set the Fortunate Watson apart from his peers, for he was just as slender and achingly handsome as the other fortunate men.

Only Marcus was completely out of sorts with them: six feet tall, broad shoulders, thick neck, big hands and feet, thick arms, thick legs… he was a giant…. Yet Esca sat over here with him instead of mingling over there with the gentler beauties.

It seemed Esca was not only attracted to fortunate men, but those of strong build. Hope flared ever brighter for the fruitful ex-soldier, for it raised his chances of winning a proposal from Esca tenfold.

He looked down the hill to his uncle, who was laughing with some young women (all of whom no doubt intended to win the affections of the distinguished unmarried gentleman of considerable wealth) and Marcus knew that as soon as Capt. Aquila heard of Esca’s specific tastes in men, he would join Harriet in a jig about the sitting room.

Sudden certainty gripped Marcus just then, certainty that he would mess this up and have to bear their crestfallen faces, his mother’s wailing and his uncle’s quiet disappointment… Perhaps he would even have to birth and raise this child in disgrace.

 _Father in Heaven, please give me mercy,_ Marcus prayed. _Let_ _me win Esca for the sake of Uncle and Mother, and for the sake of my child._

Beside him, the nobleman sat with his elbows on his knees and, having lain back, Marcus could only see Esca’s strong back in the riding jacket, and a profile of his hard face. Then suddenly Esca leaned back on an arm, the one closet to Marcus so that he was practically above Marcus in a position that bought back memories of the best night of Marcus’ life, though the nobleman looked nothing like the father of Marcus’ baby.

Esca’s question was as sudden as his movement, “Do you still feel pleasure?”

Marcus choked, “Pardon?”

“Certain rumors insist that your wound extends further than your leg,” Esca said in that kind but unsmiling way of his, that ever piercing gaze, “They say that you can no longer give women children, which is why you have revealed your deception against the regiment and sacrificed your good name, because you _will_ have a son and this is the only way anymore.”

It was a damn better reason than _I have ruined myself by conceiving with my commanding officer, and had no choice but to marry you to cover up my shame_. But Marcus could not bring himself to own up to this excuse so neatly bundled and handed to him.

For one thing, he was still quite capable of pleasure and, if they did marry, Esca would find that out soon enough. For another, though pregnant, Marcus had not relinquished the sensibilities he had adopted during his years as a man and did not, therefore, want his manhood taken from him.

“Those are just rumors,” Marcus told him, holding his gaze steadily. “I debuted because I wanted to. Like you, women have never appealed to me.”

“You could have married a man without revealing your fruitfulness.”

“Ah, but then I would have been expected to marry one of them,” he nodded down to the meadow and the fortunate gentlemen there. “They do not hold my attentions.”

Esca studied him long and hard once again, but then he smiled and revealed crinkles in his cheeks around the corners of his mouth and, if possible, his ears seemed to stick out even more. Marcus did not realize he was smiling up at the sight.                                                                                                   

The nobleman returned to how he had been sitting a moment ago, with his elbows on his knees, which left Marcus to consider the repercussions of reaching out and running his fingers down Esca’s spine.

Would such a bold move aid his quest or hinder it?

In the end he kept his hands to himself, remembering Capt. Aquila’s warning that he should cling to propriety and correctness so as to throw off all suspicion that he had done no such thing in the past. They sat in a companionable silence and Marcus’ thoughts drifted to his unborn child and then into the future and, after a brief image of his son playing in these meadows like the young Hamish Watson and other children were doing now, he fell back to praying for success once more.

“Marcus,” Esca’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I am sure you know of my position.”

Marcus sat up as Esca turned to face him and continued, “Brigantes Abbey has fallen into considerable debt. The money just isn’t there anymore. If we do not pay our debtors, I can very well end up being the Lord of Brigantes in a cottage with barely sugar enough for my tea.”

“Yes, I know,” Marcus said and his heart pounded loudly. This was it, as soon as he could make it clear that he could and would happily cover all debts, he would win the proposal. It was soon—extremely soon—but Marcus could feel it; he was such a rare fit to the peculiar tastes and needs of this nobleman that he would not be allowed to slip away.

Esca sat silent once more, studying him, and then looked back out to the others. “It is not quite as simple as finding a dowry that will save us.”

“With your tastes, I should think not, Esca,” Marcus said with great intimacy in his voice. He thrilled at the sight of the flush that climbed Esca’s neck. Marcus wanted to shout for his uncle to come, and watch, to listen, as their prayers came true. Esca cleared his throat and continued, eyes still abroad.

“Precisely. And, truth be told, you are a Godsend, Marcus, too perfect to be _believed_.” Esca’s voice thinned on the stress, the sound of honesty.

“Oh?” _It is turning out far too well_ , Marcus thought wildly, panic rising. _He cannot mean that, for if he does then it should be all too easy to convince him to marry me quickly. And surely God will not make it so easy for men to be deceitful_?

“But there are more complications to it than all of that. The nature of the debt--there is a deadline,” Esca looked around at him. “I must marry this month, or lose everything. And three weeks is a disgracefully short engagement; my spouse will barely know me for the wedding night. How can I ask that of anyone?”

Marcus gulped, and felt his face flaring as red as the checkers on the blankets beneath them. He did not know what to say without being obvious that he was equally as desperate for a fast marriage as Esca, but for reasons far more ruining than debt. Then it occurred to him that careful strategy was all that was needed to save them both.

“Esca,” he said softly, “Marriage on paper is all you need to be saved. Marriage before God can be delayed beyond the wedding night, if you so wish it. Why not marry and save Brigantes Abbey first and then consummate your union later, when you are both more comfortable?”

The nobleman gulped and a nervous laugh fell out of him, “Wedded but not bedded? I know not of anyone who would agree to such a proposition.”

“You know of at least one, my friend.”

Esca’s expression was truly inspiring--pure disbelief, joy, and a hint of horror. “Why?” he asked.

“Hm?” Marcus asked.

“Why would you agree to that? You’ve known me for _two days_. You know nothing about me beyond my love of riding and my suffocating _debt_. Why will you tie yourself to me for life?”

Marcus held his answer, letting a long silence stretch as Esca was prone to do. He grinned and finally spoke, daring to lightly run a fingertip along Esca’s chin, “Because you, too, are more than I could have hoped for, Esca.”

It was true. Not in the way Esca wanted, perhaps. But it was the truth.


	3. Betrothal

Marcus, chaperoned by his uncle like some kind of insensible young girl, saw Esca every day of the fourteen day engagement; he attended dinners every night with various members of elite Society, in which he was again and again appraised by the standards befitting the fortunate men he dwarfed. He received endless praise for his ‘handsome beauty’, compliments on his eyes and his fashions (the latest in London, they gushed, just as his mother had assured him they would). His complexion, in particular, was repeatedly noted, for it had apparently been hued by the middle-eastern sun into something quite alluring in his sex. His height or his musculature, both of which he possessed in amounts far exceeding his husband to be, were never mention, or if they were, it was in jest and quickly brushed aside.

Marcus was well accustomed to being revered for his strength and his Roman profile and for these attributes to be suddenly ignored, as if unseemly, sickened him. All the while focus was given instead to his soft hair, or his lips—and, in one case, his _eyelashes_ which were said to be quite thick and long—and it was then that Marcus realized just how hard people had to strive to find _anything_ of delicacy in him.

Meanwhile, Esca stood as apart from the crowds as he could manage, eyes on Marcus, speaking only when spoken to, “Yes, his skin has benefitted exceedingly from the war,” or during a debate about his eye color, “I believe them to be of two shades, though in direct sun I have seen them rather like a shamrock.” Beyond these comments, Esca merely tilted his head in the occasional affirmative and otherwise watched the people around him in perfect silence.

The worst of these dinners came when Marcus had to summon all of his will power to keep from being ill at certain smells that suddenly turned spells on him.

It got to where he loathed the very idea of a dinner party, for it was not just the aromas of certain foods, but the men, fortunate men, and women grinning at him, studying him, stumbling over what to call him.

_Do forgive me; is it Captain, or Fortunate?_

_Thank you, sir—s’iss! Oh, dear, I’m so confused_!

 _Frtnt. Ctpn. Aquila… how Dickensian_!

The worst of it was when the parties were more intimate, with only a handful of people. After eating, the group retired to the sitting room, and Capt. Aquila and Esca broke away to one side of the room with the men to play cards or smoke, leaving Marcus with the women and fortunate men to gossip and talk of his clothes and the latest fashions in London.

It was tolerable only when Frtnt. Watson was in attendance.

Sherlock was presumptive, loud, and incessantly a know-it-all, but Marcus knew these traits were simply an acquired taste, as Esca had described them, and he wanted to be friends with the Watsons now that this county was truly to be his home.

Frtnt. Watson did not wear the men’s clothes he’d donned as a costume for the hunt, instead dressing with more color and a flower or two in his lapel— but nothing nearly as ostentatious as the wardrobe Marcus’ mother had given him, much to Marcus’ personal distress.

When he was present at the gatherings, the beautiful, pale Fortunate Watson never failed to stir up trouble by reminding anyone speaking to Marcus that his concentration lurked elsewhere, often declaring that “the Frtnt. Captain doesn’t care for this kind of talk, let us discuss the thing he is truly interested in: his betrothed _Cunoval_!”

And that was how Marcus accidently tapped into an incredible well-spring of information on the dashing lord-in-coming. Esca was the youngest of three sons. The same illness took both his elder brothers and his poor mother over ten years ago, and around that time the old man’s mind began to go; ever since Esca had been very much alone.

But there was more than that whispered in other circles, and done so sometimes without even the influence of Sherlock Watson, who never received invites to the more elite parties. (Marcus—rather too late to do anything about his fondness for him—soon learned that Sherlock’s man-ish and uncouth ways made him something of a social pariah, and it was only as the spouse of the town’s only doctor that he had any invitations at all. Naturally, when Marcus heard Sherlock’s situation phrased so--and with a scathing tone no-less--he could not help but to defend the fortunate man and simultaneously insult the young woman who had spoken.)

At a gathering hosted by the Swann family, the ever entertaining Frtnt. Watson sadly absent, Marcus heard it first from a pair of overly-giggly women that it was most surprising that Esca preferred fortunate gentlemen. His reputation, apparently, said quite the opposite.

“Have you met any of the young house maids of Brigantes Abbey, Frtnt. Captain?” one of them asked him quite coquettishly, batting her fan in front of her face. She was old enough to be Marcus’s mother and thus bold enough to continue with, “They say Lord Esca has a taste for them.”

Her daughters admonished her for her boldness, the more modest among them begging Marcus for forgiveness but the mother defended herself somewhat shrilly, “Frtnt. Capt. Aquila is a soldier, my dears, I am quite certain he has heard things far worse than a modestly phrased implication such as that!”

The eldest of the daughters excused their mother and pulled her away and the remaining young women gave him tight smiles and confessed, “My mother is still wounded over Lord Esca’s recent announcement that he will have a fortunate husband. She does not agree that he should have, as she puts it, _led everyone on_ for as long as he did. She had her eye on him for our sister, Jane, you see.”

“Yes, I understand. You need not worry; I am not offended. In fact, there are many mothers in London who are at present angered with me, for they had their eyes on _me_ for their daughters.”

The young women burst into laughter, relaxing, and Marcus wondered aloud, “But did he keep his preferences a secret for so long? I had no idea.”

They nodded enthusiastically, “Years ago, Mother says, everyone was quite sure he was attached to a girl of no standing. But _I_ have never known him to show interest in _anyone_ at all; in truth I scarcely even knew what he looked like until now. Yet here you are, drawing him out to mingle with the rest of us day after day, and you’ve an engagement in the bag after only a week! However did you manage it?”

Marcus leaned back in his chair and crossed his arms before remembering the posture to be hardly proper, and he sat up quickly, knocking his knees back together. “I am sure my income has a great deal to do with it.”

“Oh, no!” Miss Elizabeth Swann lightly tapped his arm with her fan. “You are too humble, Frtnt. Cptn. Aquila! Can you not see how he looks at you?”

A satisfied flush filled Marcus’ face to hear such things. In this moment, he felt he could pull off this scheme very easily. He cleared his throat and rejoined the conversation in time to hear one lady say,

“In one deft move, s’iss, you’ll have gone from a mere captain to one step down from royalty.”

Marcus wanted to make it clear he had never had desires to climb higher in Society than his birth rank, least it reach Esca that such were his intentions, but before he could conjure such a statement within the frame of propriety, there was an interruption.

“Pardon me,” it was Esca, steady stare and wide ears and all, approaching from behind Marcus’ chair. He must have heard the conversation—the last lady to speak must have known he was close enough to hear—and Marcus was struck by the young lady’s trickery; had Marcus wished to gloat on the matter of his advantageous engagement, he would have shot himself in the foot, so to speak. Perhaps these daughters were as equally wounded over Esca’s preferences as their mother, after all.

Esca pasted a bland smile on his features, which he directed to the elegant women. Marcus sensed that the nobleman _had_ detected their ill-sprung trap, for he said with cool detachment, “I am sorry to intrude... But, Marcus, your uncle prepares to leave. May I walk you to the coach?”

Though Marcus did not enjoy the patronizing need for a chaperone and an escort down the front hall like he might have trouble climbing into the carriage, he accepted it for sake of propriety. “Yes, thank you.”

Being so much taller than Esca, it felt as if he was the escort through the halls down to the front door. Outside the house, Esca stayed Marcus before handing him off into the carriage. “You will get used to it.”

“To what—uh, your lordship?” Marcus asked, remembering to address the nobleman properly. Truly, he would have to brush up on his etiquette; it had been far too long since he had been a proper member of Society.

Esca smiled, unblinking, and his ears were sticking out. “Dealing with that lot. They have nothing better to do but meddle and scheme. But your instinct kept you out of many traps tonight.”

Astounded and pleased to hear such a thing, Marcus smiled and nodded. “You flatter me.”

Despite such assurances, he did not feel very adept in the strategy of surviving intimate gatherings. _The larger ones are easier to bear_ , he thought. _One could simply get lost in the crowd and seek a hiding place._

“And I have asked you to know me as Esca,” the shorter man said in a softer voice, coming half a step closer and tilting up his face. Marcus’ blood spiked with triumph upon recognizing a moment of tenderness.

“Forgive me, Esca,” he dipped his head, embarrassed by his mistake, admitted, “I have only been trying to recall my etiquette lessons and forgot.”

“Forgot?” Esca’s chuckle was soft, “You are endearing, Marcus.”

He had never before in his life been accused as such, but then again, he had never truly courted anyone, either, most especially as the fairer sex of the two.

“Goodnight, Esca,” Marcus breathed, warming his voice, and he bowed--appropriately this time--and turned away from his betrothed, climbing into the carriage.

|||

_Father in Heaven, please do not be cruel. Please, for the sake of my child, do not let what we are building crumble into dust._

Everything was going so perfectly, Marcus was sure disaster lurked at every turn. He swung down out of his saddle and led his horse into the stables alongside Esca. The grounds of the estate were extensive and tranquil, and despite having gone out several times already, there was still much left for Marcus to see. But even having been given a tour of so little of it, he had already seen far too much disrepair; Esca was quite desperate for his money, indeed.

Their ride through the fading summer had left them both windswept and cold. For the chill as an excuse, Esca had purchased Marcus a very fine cloak with elaborate embroidery of black on black, an olive green silk lining, and silver clasps.

_“I see now how you’ve become so mired in debt,” Marcus had breathed as he stroked the soft inside of the cloak, the first article of fortunate clothing he had ever truly liked. “Your taste demands it of you.”_

_Esca had allowed a laugh, “I have been convincingly advised to accept nothing less than what I like.”_

_The reference to Marcus’ words from the hunt—said now with heavy subtext as Esca’s eyes stay locked on him—had made the mother man clear his throat in want of something else to say, and Esca had filled the silence with a motion to the gift, “I saw it and thought instantly of you. Try it on so that I may see if it compliments your eyes like I think it will.”_

_Marcus settled the cloak on his shoulders and fastened it there. He reassured Esca he loved it, and the nobleman had smirked up at him, “It is very good that you do, because it is your money that will pay the bill for it when we are married.”_

Now, as he dismounted from Appleseed, Marcus threw the cloak over one shoulder, flashing the silk into the dreary light of day, and in doing so got a most peculiar feeling of being pretty in his clothes. For the first time, this did not make Marcus wish he could dissolve into the ground under his feet; instead, his chin lifted a little higher.

Esca always prepared and put away his own horse. The nobleman had never offered an explanation for this, nor had Marcus demanded one, assuming solemnly that the horseman simply could not be afforded—not when the nobleman himself proved so adept at the chore. In fact, Marcus was thankful for his life in the military after he clearly impressed Esca by proving his own skill at preparing a horse, despite the fact that he was accustomed to a life of sixty thousand a year.

“Horses truly light you up,” Marcus commented as he helped Esca brush down his white mare.

“To gallop is like to fly,” the man replied, and Marcus had already learned that when Esca’s voice was strong but soft like this, he was speaking not practiced words of etiquette, but truth that bled out of his bones.

(In this way Marcus had already heard him speak affectionately of his family— _my brother was a rather boisterous and exceedingly charming chap_ \--and his belief in the sanctity of marriage as he witnessed in his parent’s union of forty blissful years. _Used to come around corners and see them dancing without a tune in the air._ )

“So your choice of the name Eagle for a horse is illuminated,” Marcus grinned.

“I was but eleven when I named her,” Esca defended. He reached up to stroke her mane lovingly, and he kissed her big nose. “I played so many games with her back then. She and I have flown about the world together, haven’t we girl?”

She neighed like she was answering in the positive and Esca and Marcus laughed. Marcus patted her neck, “She understands you, I think.”

“Of course she does; she’s my dearest friend,” he pulled off her bridle and asked, “Who is your closest friend, Marcus?”

It was like a kick in the stomach, and Marcus fumbled the brush, dropped it, and thankfully got to hide his face as he dipped to pick it up. He managed to have his expression schooled back into proper amiability when he straightened, and actually sounded easy enough as he replied, “Uncle, I suppose.”

Esca looked surprised, “I should think a soldier you served with.”

“I had many friends in the regiment,” Marcus answered truthfully. “But I have been out of service for nearly a year now, and they have forgotten me.” Damn, his voice sounded choked as he said it, thinking specifically of that horrible day; _you will never seek to contact me. Are we clear_?

Marcus cleared his throat and held onto the horse as a way to refrain from putting a hand to his stomach as if to protect the baby from the blow of acute heartbreak.

Then Esca’s gloved hand was on his, comforting weight against the horses’ warm side, “You miss them all? Or one in particular?”

Marcus’ startled expression gave him away and Esca nodded. “I thought it likely. To be as you are and surrounded by men day in and day out; you must have formed an attachment to the best of them.”

Alarmed that his secret teetered on the brink of revelation, Marcus hardened his face. “It was a --nothing ever came of it,” he lied.

“For fear of revealing your deception,” Esca finished for him. Marcus let it lie as a truth. And it was partially so. Marcus had never allowed himself to act on his feelings until after his discharge, miserable and looking for any way to feel alive. Esca’s penetrating gaze left Marcus uncomfortable in his skin. The watchful man broke the silence with, “Do you still care for him?”

“I have not seen him,” Marcus answered truthfully, bitingly. After a brief pause, he said with more control, “And I will never see him again, for I will not visit him.” He went back to brushing the horse and added, thickly, “He is engaged to marry a woman.”

“Oh, I see,” the pure sympathy in Esca’s voice was the last thing Marcus wanted, and he said as much, the words laced with the venom he had felt but kept wrapped up inside ever since his lover had left him in shame with a child.

They fell silent with Marcus’s hard words echoing in the stable, and Marcus resolutely focused on brushing the horse. He found he wanted to go home and curl up in his bed and speak to no one, to put an end to the falsetto lies, to the façade of happiness, to the endless stream of worry and regret and bitterness.

“I hope…” Esca started. Marcus broke and finally looked at his betrothed. Esca looked up at him ardently, “I hope I did not offend you too greatly, Marcus.”

Drawing in a breath, Marcus remembered that the future happiness of his child rested on his wedding night being consummative and to do that, he had to encourage. He stepped closer, smiling, “There is no offense in attempting to know the man who will be your husband, Esca.” Then he moved in, dipped down, and pressed his mouth to Esca’s.

After a flicker of his tongue over Esca’s bottom lip, Marcus withdrew and had the bridle out of Esca’s slackened hand. He busied himself hanging it up, then Esca led his prized horse into her stall, and, as they headed back toward the house together, Esca ventured to link their fingers together.

|||

In the remaining four days of their engagement, Marcus managed to trap Esca in as many isolated places for stolen kisses as possible. It was not a hard endeavor, for there seemed to be wildness in Esca, a bite of fire that leapt out whenever Marcus invited him to do as he wished. Often enough, Marcus found himself pinned to the wall by a small but surprisingly strong frame, his mouth claimed by Esca’s in ever growing passion.

 _Convincing him to take me will not be difficult in the least_ , Marcus thought in these moments and oh how his blood spiked at the thought; his body ached to be touched as pregnancy rapidly altered his blood and deconstructed his sensibilities. For want of a more important pasttime, he quickly developed a coy game out of provoking such passions in Esca.

Whenever they were alone, Marcus was sure to catch his eye and grin bashfully, quickly looking away. He sat or stood close, brushing the other man’s hand until Esca linked their fingers. He injected warmth into his voice when he spoke and from there all Marcus need do was bend his head down, and Esca was already coming up, and then their mouths came together, and Marcus made himself go pliant as Esca took control.

On the evening before the ceremony, Marcus did not even make one of his attempts before Esca pressed their lips together in a demure little kiss. It happened in the shadows of the stables the moment they were finished housing the horses.

The kiss took Marcus by surprise, and the gentleness, the _tingles_ it provoked set his body on fire. He moaned wantonly against the man’s mouth and pulled him closer for a proper kiss. Esca’s lips parted and their tongues swept together. His hands captured Marcus’ face and pulled him in for even more.

It felt so wonderful it transported Marcus back in time, to a moment when he had been free to explore his urges with a trusted friend. He pushed against Esca’s hip, and Esca suddenly pulled away and put space between them, wide eyed and breathless. “We must not go on until… until tomorrow night…”

Marcus’s addled-with-want mind finally understood that he had nearly lost himself again, lost his sense of propriety and correctness, all in the name of feeling as he once had: full and loved, blissful and beautiful. He thanked God he did not have time to say the wrong name in his passions.

He flushed in shame and asked for forgiveness, made up lies about having never gotten so carried away before. “You… you do this to me, Esca.” His stomach felt sick at the lie because he himself had been on the receiving end of such cherished words only to have the whole thing shatter into a thousand splintered shards of glass when the truth revealed itself.

 _I am going. You will never seek to contact me. Are we clear_?

“Yes, you are right,” Marcus continued thickly over the pain of memory, “We must wait until we are husbands. I think it will be best if I return to my uncle’s house until the ceremony. And then--” he stumbled and forced himself to meet Esca’s eye. “And then I am yours.”

Eyes aflame with desire, Esca nodded, face still flushed and lips still swollen and red. Marcus bowed his head in parting and hurried off to arrange a carriage, mind reeling. He had enjoyed pulling Esca’s strings, playing with his emotions… and for what? It had been to aid his lies, to manipulate a good man for personal gain with no regard for that man’s heart.

As soon as he was out of sight of his hoodwinked betrothed, he stopped to be ill.

It had nothing to do with the pregnancy.

|||

Capt. Aquila met Marcus’ carriage outside the townhouse. The white haired man did not even give a greeting or even let Marcus give one before he said, “Marcus, you have a guest. In the sitting room.”

Not liking the tight, disapproving, half-panicked look on his uncle’s long, lined face, Marcus hurried into the sitting room, not removing his cloak but rather hastily holding it closed around his white, pale green, and lacy riding jacket, because he knew who it was, though he could hardly believe it.

This was the first caller he had had since revealing his pregnancy to anyone, and he dared to hope-- _it was_ \--

“ _Liathan_ ,” Marcus stopped dead in his tracks, the name falling out in a gasp of happiness.

The tall, dark haired soldier was dressed in his blue military jacket and turned swiftly from his observation of the mantel clock to beam at him in that ever friendly, loving way of his, “Marcus, good lord, you are a sight for sore eyes.”

This was a far cry better than their last exchange.

_You will not seek to contact me. Are we clear?_

_Yes, Highness_.

Prince Liathan, the forth son of the Queen of the Empire and Marcus’ commanding officer and firmest friend, approached as if to embrace him but then thought better of it and stopped short, out of arm’s length, and did not even offer a hand to shake. “I should have gone to London when you debuted, but… How are you?”

“I’m getting married,” Marcus burst.

“Are you?” Liathan looked alarmed and even hurt, jaw gone slack and large brown eyes blinking rapidly.

“Yes!” Marcus cried and he paced past the prince to the mantel to lean on it, for his knees felt weak. “Liathan, what did you expect me to do after you abandoned me with child?”

“I was surprised by your news, Marcus,” Liathan answered. “I did not—that is to say…You must realize what a painful shock it is to the system to discover the one person in England whom you believed to know better than any other has all the while been lying about something so alarming.”

“How many times did I tell you?” Marcus was quick to ask, for he had formed this argument precisely in his head over the last weeks, “How many times had I said to you in truest confidence over the years that I felt I never truly fit in? That my struggle to prove myself would never be finished? That my father left me _because I was not a worthy son_? I as good as told you; yes, I know that shall not do, but did I have a choice in the matter? To tell you would have been to put you in a terrible position. You could not morally keep me in the regiment knowing my gender. As a prince you hold a duty to the kingdom higher than our friendship and my foolhardy desire to serve out of my place. But I _wanted_ to tell you. So many times I wanted to tell you, Liathan.”

Throughout this speech, Liathan stood with his face turned as if he would not gaze upon the fool attempting to gain his pardon; a rightful king by birth, and blood and bearing. When Marcus was quite finished with his defense, Liathan’s throat pulsed and he said only, “Whatever your intentions, the fact remains that you have been first and foremost _dishonest_.”

“Only about that which would hinder my aspirations to—“

“And furthermore, to seduce a prince of the kingdom for your personal gain—“

“Seduce?”

“—an outrage to the—“

“Personal gain?”

“—and if I did not owe you my life several times over I should have you—“

“HOW DARE YOU?” Marcus fairly roared and then, with great effort, restrained his voice into something a little more gentlemanly though the fury behind it shook him to the bones, “If I was indeed the seducer in our affair then have it be known that I did _not_ act with a hidden agenda. I followed my heart, Liathan. I hoped to _marry you_!”

This confession drew them both up rather short. They blinked at one another, Marcus shamefully looking away. He had hardly let himself face it before his discharge, the niggling thoughts that he could share himself and grow old with his best friend, joined in the eyes of God as one. A dreadful stretch of silence opened between them and then Liathan spoke once again.

“I have been told since I was a boy that I would marry the Lady of Geneva Hall, that she would have my children. I have never considered a fortunate man in that role.”

“…Might you consider it now?”

Liathan turned away. Marcus waited with hopping heart and stilted breath. Finally, “What does it matter? I am obligated to Lenore despite my preferences.”

“But if you love me—“

“I have always held you in the highest regard, Marcus. When I saw you after your discharge, I thought to lessen your grief by demonstrating that through it all you would still have my friendship and support in all things. When you… that is to say… when you grew ardent… I did not wish to cause you further disappointment… I confess I did not handle it well.”

“I see,” Marcus croaked, breathless from the stark realities of the insight into what had, until this moment, been held as a night of utmost surrender and beautiful connection between two hearts.

“Breathe, for the love of God, Marcus. You look faint.”

“Why have you come?” the words sprang, bitter, from Marcus’ throat, dry and raw like poisoned pits that had been choking him before a great cough dislodged them.

“Why do you think? How can I abandon my firstborn child to live the life of a bastard?”

Marcus whirled, “Well, you made as if it was no trouble for you to do so at all; I never expected to see you again.”

“I’m back to offer any assistance you might need--“

“You’re still marrying Lenore?” Marcus asked.

“Of course I am.”

“There is nothing you can do for me short of leaving her and taking me. I do not need money, Liathan, I have plenty of my own. What I need is a father for our child.”

Liathan’s face went hard with disbelief and anger, “I’m a prince of England, Marcus! I will not simply turn my back on my word to her and marry _you_!”

Marcus turned and gripped the mantel again, lowered his head. His heart was pounding and deepest embarrassment pulsed through him. Surely, _surely_ Liathan did not say such a thing? But, yes, he had. And yes, he’d meant it.

The ex-soldier closed his eyes and prayed for strength because he did not prepare himself this morning to see Liathan again, to hear his voice and see his dark eyes, his smile all so dearly missed.

He heard Liathan pacing and then the prince said, “No one told me you are engaged—I did wonder why your uncle would even come this far north. Who is he, then?”

Marcus considered not answering, not giving Liathan a single thing he wanted, but he might as well, for he’d learn it eventually; it was a miracle he had not already. “Esca Cunoval, Lord Cunoval’s heir.”

Liathan’s puff of breath proceeded what was distinctly a relieved, “is he really?”

Marcus turned, “What is it?”

“Nothing,” Liathan replied, still breathless, “Tis a fine match—a very fine match. However did you orchestrate it? No, it doesn’t matter—I’m happy for you.” Marcus’s friend and one time cherished lover gave him what was clearly a _friend_ smile.

Marcus’ heart broke all over again. “You... you would have me married to another man.”

The groan was so very Liathan that Marcus almost felt like smiling. Almost. The prince dropped his head back, lips bowing, “Marcus, of course I will! On top of your father’s scandal, and the precarious situation of your deceit in the regiment, you will be _ruined_ if you give birth without a wedding!”

Marcus looked down at the rug and lowered into a chair before his knees really gave out.

“He’s nothing like you,” Marcus whispered.

Liathan sighed and took a seat on the sofa, “Do not do this to yourself, my friend.”

“Friend?” the word cracked out of Marcus’ restricting throat. “Once you called me your most beloved, your dearest.”

Liathan dropped his face in his hands. “Don’t. One just says those things in passion, you know…”

“I gave you everything,” Marcus choked, “you asked and I gave with faith and you—you’ve ruined me.”

Liathan’s face was dark when he stood to his full height. “As I have said before, you were depressed over your discharge, angry about your leg; I thought to cheer you up! I would never have touched you if I had known a child could come of it! _I’m a prince_ , Marcus, I cannot have illegitimate children! I thought we were safe from that, but it was a lie--” Liathan stomped as he paced. “ _You_ knew the consequences all along yet let it go on, and _knowing_ _fully_ that I can do nothing to save you from shame. You ruined _yourself_!”

Marcus was crying. Damned hormones had him crying over horses being whipped too much by coachmen, but _this_. “I know,” Marcus choked. “I know, but I’ve loved you for so long; I could not refuse you.”

Helpless against the tide, all Marcus could do was drop his face in his hands and have his cry out. It was brief but intense, and he straightened, wiping at his eyes and attempting to hold some dignity. Still there, Liathan returned to his place on the sofa, looking pained. “I saw that surgeon carve your leg wide open, yet you did not cry. Now this.”

“The changes--“

“I see.”

Marcus wiped at his face again and Liathan said, “Well you must be marrying soon.”

“Tomorrow.”

Liathan’s laugh was a bark of amusement, “That soon! Wow, you are quite the orchestrator of miracles, then. The plan, no doubt, is to feign prematurity?”

“I do not think I can marry him,” Marcus confessed and Liathan had on his Liathan-groan face, the one he used when groaning aloud would draw the unwanted attention of those he was groaning about behind their backs at parties, and he said, “Why ever not?”

“He is not _you_.”

“Do _not_ love me, Marcus. Not in that way.”

“I do not have a choice.”

He saw it on the prince’s face, for a moment—just a moment—Liathan softened and revealed to Marcus the man who had made love to him. But in the next breath it was gone, and Liathan stood abruptly to resume pacing once more.

“What does love have to do with it, anyway?” he asked, “This is a _marriage_ we’re talking about! Those are more like business contracts than anything. Look at every marriage in my family, for example... No doubt _he_ is benefiting in some way from having you—besides getting claims on your body.”

“My money will clear his debts.”

“You see? _You_ avoid scandal, _he_ avoids bankruptcy, and _I_ am satisfied knowing that an heir to the kingdom (however distant he may be due to my many brothers and their fertile wives) is still living like the royalty that is in his blood; the heir to the Lord of Brigantes, it’s not the crown of England, but it’ll do! Don’t you see? _Everyone wins_!”

Liathan threw his arms out as if to embrace this genius plan, and then returned to his seat, leaning heavily forward with his elbows on his knees. His face was perhaps the most serious it had ever been, “Marcus. This opportunity has been sent to us by God, and you _must_ go through with it.”

Marcus knew this but still, looking into those dark, perfect eyes, his heart wrenched at the thought of giving himself to anyone else but this man before him. He stood and held out a hand. Liathan hesitated and took it. Marcus shook and tried for his strongest voice, “Do not come to the wedding, Your Highness. I shall not be able to go through with it if you are near.”

And with that, he left the room, hand still tingling from Liathan’s touch.

|||

_Sated and blissfully fulfilled, Marcus lay in bed in the middle of the day. His leg did not ache, with credit to a sensual massage given to it barely the hour passed. He fit comfortably in the crook of his lover’s arm, feeling Liathan’s breath in the hair behind his ear. They had all ten fingers entwined and had for some time been passing the minutes simply by tangling their digits together, touching finger tips and tracing palms. Silently at ease with one another. Silently memorizing one another through the sense of touch (as they had long since done through sight, sound and even smell). Silently rejoicing in the gifts of creation._

_A deep breath preceded Liathan’s venture to break the silence. His words were murmured into Marcus’ hair, quiet and sincere. “Marcus, with just your touch I feel more alive than I have felt in the whole of my life.”_

Presently, Marcus sat quite still at his window in his uncle’s rented townhouse. He wanted to scream, to beg and plea with the Heavens for an answer. For something to reconcile all that Liathan had once said to all he’d said this evening in the sitting room of this house. How could it be? How could he have possibly meant any of that?

_I did not want to cause you further disappointment; I did not handle it well… I only meant to cheer you up… one only says those things in passion, you know…_

So the prince would have it that he had been nothing but a friend doing as was expected of him for fear of causing offense? Nonsense. Lies.

“No. He _loves_ me,” Marcus said aloud to the empty room as if arguing with someone. A tremor shook some of the standing water from his eyes. _He loves me. He loves me. He must. He can’t have been so… he can’t have been so wonderful if he did not care. Father in Heaven, please let him have been lying just now for whatever reason; I care not. Only, please, let him love me back._

After he had sat for some time, gently shaking, tears silently sliding down his cheeks, praying and sniffling and occasionally rocking or shaking his head as the grief in his chest reached painful peaks, Marcus came to a decision. Liathan had been lying, pretending that his feelings were not as deep as they truly were. Perhaps it was an attempt to protect himself—indeed them both—from the blow of the upcoming wedding to Lenore and, now, apparently, Esca.

He’d been lying to save Marcus. No doubt about it.

_Might you consider it now?_

_What does it matter? I am obligated to Lenore_.

So he _would_ marry Marcus, were they able; of course he would—the love they’d made… that was the sort of thing that marriage was made of. Therefore, if he, Marcus, could just convince Liathan to beak his word with Lenore, to stand up to his mother, to follow his _heart_ … they could be wed tonight! An elopement would cause whispers, it would certainly break Harriet’s heart, but ultimately there could be nothing anyone could say against it.

This put Marcus into immediate action and he stood and strode across the room with deliberate energy only to stop at the door with nowhere to go, nothing to do. Liathan would be in his private coach back to ----shire and the secluded visit with distant family that he had interrupted to travel the few miles here in secret to see Marcus.

The disabled soldier had had thoughts to ready a horse and surprise the prince with a visit, to convince him in any way possible to marry him and ensure both of their happinesses. But he could not.

For one, the only horses at his disposal were Esca’s and it would be too difficult to fathom an excuse that would ensure Esca did not eagerly insist on traveling with him. For another, several members of the royal family as well as Lenore would no doubt be in ----shire and Marcus hadn’t the strength to face any of them in his condition.

Time was running out.

Tomorrow he would wed Esca.

Marcus went to his knees there in the center of the floor and then—due to the screaming displeasure of his leg—his bottom.

The thought which had felled a stature such as his was quite shocking in its finality.

_No matter what either of us wants, we’re too late._


	4. The Wedding and the Wedding Night

_Father in Heaven, I know what I must do, but it torments me. Please, please release the hold Liathan has on me. Father in Heaven, please help me so that I can give my child the life he deserves._

“Are you well?” Capt. Aquila asked, concern knitting his brow.

“I will have this over with quickly, if only Mother did not insist on such a ceremony.”

“Allow mothers their dreams of a beautiful wedding.”

Marcus sighed, too much nervous energy coiled tightly under his skin. With a glance at Capt. Aquila in the looking glass over his shoulder, Marcus saw the man had a knowing grin and, upon catching his nephew’s eye, approached to grip his shoulders reassuringly.

“Marcus, I may have been hard on you of late, but please know that my disappointment was magnified only by how much I love you. I consider you as my son.”

Emotions swelled up from places kept still and unobserved. Suddenly the ex-soldier found himself on the brink of tears. He cleared his throat and managed a civil, “I know, Uncle. I am honored to be of as much importance to you as you are to me.”

Silence fell in which Marcus desperately hoped the rare tenderness had passed. Capt. Aquila continued as he adjusted the medals on Marcus’ uniform. (Marcus had refused to wear the monstrosity of a decorative suit that Mother had attempted to force him into, and so wore his military uniform for what would be the last time.)

“Know also that—though I would have chosen a different path for you—I am profoundly proud of the manner with which you have conducted yourself through this disaster. You have navigated a treacherous field with grace and dignity. Now there lies before us one more obstacle between scandal and security; a successful consummation.”

A fierce blush colored Marcus rather prettily, and Capt. Aquila tactfully moved away under the pretext of cutting a flower from a nearby vase for his lapel.

Now the white-haired man’s eyes twinkled in the mirror as they held Marcus’ gaze and he squeezed Marcus’ shoulder, handing him the flower to pin to his chest, “You have done exceedingly well in your quest, my boy. I see the way he looks at you, and I dare say the battle to come is all but won.”

Casting his mind back over the last two weeks—the whirlwind of parties and dinners and intimate outings with his betrothed—Marcus could attest under severest oath to the earnest effort he had put into courting Esca.

But a rush of nerves drew a sudden deep breath into his lungs, and he released it, fingers shaking as he swallowed any dramatic declarations that he could not go through with this; that he loved another and could not be untrue to him.

Capt. Aquila gripped the back of his neck with a gentle squeeze. He said exactly what Marcus needed to hear: “No child, even with our money, can live a full life under the title of the Aquila Bastard.”

Marcus nodded, once, hard. He adopted the mask of courage he once wore to lead his men into battle and fell into step with his uncle down the aisle to where Esca waited to claim him, before family and friends in a house of God, as his fortunate husband.

Esca was handsome in his long tails and stark white collar, slicked hair under a top hat that did not help his unfortunate ears, with the same unsmiling deer-like expression. Marcus smiled at the ears. His heart could harden through, his soul could fade of color, but those ears would always tug at the corners of his mouth.

When Marcus drew nearer, he saw Esca realize that something was wrong with him, and Marcus desperately attempted to loosen his shoulders and wear the smile of a fortunate groom about to wed and bed a man he ached for, though the fire was quite out of his blood at the moment. He took Esca’s hands before the priest and gave them a reassuring squeeze.

Esca remained guarded for a moment more until Marcus slid his thumb over Esca’s knuckle in loving circles. That relaxed the nobleman and as the ceremony went on, the priest got two yeses and Marcus pressed his mouth to Esca’s, this time as his husband.

_Praise to the Lord Jesus Christ!_

Esca led him back down the aisle and into the waiting carriage. Marcus sagged into the seat and closed his eyes briefly, summoning will power and secret fantasy to spark the fire for aid in this charade. He wrapped his arms around Esca when the man was fully in the carriage beside him. Burning hot at the touch, Esca kissed him again and again, smiling, and Marcus allowed himself to hope that the heat in these caresses meant his prayers would be answered swiftly.

_Father in Heaven, I ask you now, please, please, let him take me tonight so that he will believe that this child is his. I will ask for nothing else but the health and safety of my child. Please, Father in Heaven, help me only a little more._

 

|||

Due to the frail health of the Old Man, Esca was not free to go abroad for a honeymoon, so they sent away the meager handful of servants that the nearly bankrupt estate had been able to keep on and stayed at Brigantes Abbey. The house was strangely empty without footmen and butlers lurking around. All that remained were two or three servants (to handle the meals), Nurse Sasstica and the Old Man (in a separate part of the house), and the newlyweds.

They bounded out of the carriage, and Esca chased Marcus up the stairs with a wildly playful, predatory gaze that had Marcus’ heart thundering like a running horse. On the top floor, Marcus allowed himself to be captured and they kissed deeply, bodies pressed together, so hot that Marcus thought he felt his nipples burning against the heat of Esca’s body.

They broke apart, quietly gasping. This was it. Marcus found that it was a little easier than he had previously imagined. He looked down at Esca through his eyelashes and bit his lip. Their hips bumped suggestively.

“A-Are you sure?” the nobleman asked. The skip in his voice made Marcus feel powerful. He took Esca’s hand and tried to lead him to the master bedroom. Esca dug his feet into the rug and waited for a real answer to his question.

“Yes,” Marcus lied. Was he ready to play with a man’s emotions so callously? No. But he had no choice. And if it felt as good as this, then he certainly _could_ do it, heart in it or not. Marcus drew up near Esca and wrapped his arms around him. In his most intimate of voices he half sighed, half moaned, “I am finally yours.”

Esca put hands on his chest, looked up at him, “You agreed to a wedding with a delayed consummation, Marcus. Will you not hold to that contract?”

“I will if you wish to delay the inevitable,” he replied lowly, moving in for another kiss and breaking it only to continue, “but I know what I want, Esca. Do you?” When Marcus moved against him, Esca made an affirmative noise and Marcus grinned, saying against Esca’s lips, “So how can you settle for anything less?”

The force of the kiss which Esca then surged into hurt, and Marcus grunted into it, but then he returned the ardor, heart racing as his mind jumped ahead to what was to come. Esca laughed nervously when they next broke apart on the way through the bedroom door.

All Marcus could hear was the rush of his blood in his ears, and he was once again acutely aware of Esca’s eyes on him as he stripped his clothes to reveal his body for another man. Esca did the same, peeling cloth away to show much more skin than Marcus had yet seen on him, bare shoulders, chest, nipples, and abdomen… shapely legs with an exaggeration of leg hair, and knobby knees. Esca watched relentlessly as Marcus mirrored him, and when Marcus hesitated before making to remove his smalls, Esca, in his smalls also, moved in and crowded Marcus onto the bed before the garments were even touched.

Marcus felt shaky. Esca’s skin was pale, blemished with a smattering of freckles here and there, and taut over lean muscle clinging to his wiry frame. He crawled over Marcus with a look in his eye that set the fortunate’s stomach to fluttering and his mind racing with both doubt and deliberation— _you must_ , he told himself, _you must and you can. Just let him do as he will with you and it will be over soon._ Only part of him hesitated. Other parts stirred deliciously and wanted more, no care in the world who it was from so long as it continued.

Esca’s breathing was audible, his stare closer and more intense than ever. When he lowered to press their mouths together once more, Marcus could feel him shaking as well. Marcus touched him—hands to Esca’s narrow rib cage—to encourage him and at the prompt Esca deepened the kiss and eased the weight of his lower half onto Marcus. His erection was fully hard against Marcus’ thigh and it made him jump even though he’d expected it.

Their kisses broke for shy smiles, bashful breathy laughs, and then some wriggling ended up with Esca’s thigh sliding between Marcus’ to press against his stirring cock. Then they were kissing again. Marcus could feel under his hands on the man’s chest Esca’s blood pounding through his body. He remembered how exciting his first encounter had been, the mystery meeting the reality and how surprising to find that the smallest movement could bring so much pleasure.

Marcus focused on returning each kiss, mirroring each touch and the hot, rigid flesh pressing into him grew hotter, but Esca did not move against him save for the occasional, uncontrolled bump, and he did not make to remove Marcus’ smalls or his own. Nor did he seem at all aware of the bottle of oil on the bedside table, placed helpfully there by the staff.

 _What was he waiting for_?

“Marcus?” Esca asked, breaking away completely and sitting back a little in order to look him fully in the eye, “Marcus, is everything—alright?”

“Hm?”

In answer, Esca looked down between them, pointedly at Marcus’ smalls and it was only then that Marcus realized he should be hard by now, he should be as full and aching as Esca, yet his cock lay placid, stirring pleasantly but doing nothing more.

A choke of humiliation jumped out of Marcus, and he reached for himself quite frankly, giving a tug—sensitive but not reacting as it should. Panic rose as Marcus cleared his throat nervously and quickly explained, “Yes, yes, I am well—only…” he could not think of an excuse so shook his head and craned up for Esca’s lips, “Pay it no mind. Continue. Please.”

Esca did not continue but said softly, no accusation, just wonder, “You _were_ wounded.”

“No!”

“Then what is it?”

“I only—it does not matter,” though every fiber of Marcus’ being was now terrified that something had gone wrong, that all those excruciating thigh cramps which had occasionally crawled all the way up into his groin had sprained something irreparably. “Nervous!” he cried suddenly stumbling on the excuse in the chaotic tumble of his thoughts, “I am nervous. I shall respond soon, I assure you.”

But Esca sat up and away, not touching him at all. He was smirking, “I will not take you when you are so uneasy.”

“Esca—“

“I know what I want,” Esca cut in sharply, and he grinned, eyes flashing darkly, “And I want your body straining for mine.”

“It is,” Marcus lied blindly, sitting up and sliding against Esca, “I want you, Esca. I do. I will be straining if you will only continue.” He pulled Esca closer, awkwardly crawled back under his new husband, fitting his legs around him, moving his pelvis against one of Esca’s thighs. They both looked down, silent and watching, and to Marcus’ utter horror, he pumped and pumped but his flesh had no more reaction than to twitch at the over stimulation. Even Esca was losing his passion.

Esca pulled away, “Enough of this.”

Marcus dropped an arm over his eyes, whole body red with humiliation. “I have never failed to—“

“Tis no matter,” Esca cut in with a voice that rang a tad too bravado, “We will consummate this marriage at another time.”

His mortification overrode his urgency to follow through with his schemes, and he just lay there. “But we’ve—we should—I should be able to—“

“Marcus,” Esca was trying not to grin, “Do not be ashamed. I am sure this happens from time to time, and I am sure it is not a permanent ailment.”

“Of course it’s not permanent!” Marcus snapped, rolling away.

“No,” Esca agreed and he wriggled under the blankets, “For now we can sleep.”

“SLEEP?” Marcus sat up, back to trying to conceive a child tonight. “We are married, we should—“

“We spoke of delaying this, Marcus. And we still can,” then, laughing sweetly at Marcus, “Do not look so forlorn; I rather like the kissing, so that shall continue, at least.” He moved in so that his lips covered Marcus’, hand on the back of the soldier’s head helping him deepen the kiss.

“You want me,” Marcus broke away to say fiercely. At close proximity, Esca’s eyes dropped down the long expanse of Marcus’ bare torso and climbed back to his eyes.

“Yes,” he whispered, so near that the breath of it was on Marcus’ upper lip. Marcus surged forward and pinned him with his head at the foot of the bed in another kiss. They rolled and Esca was again over him, and Marcus broke the kiss and said as ardently as he could, “Then have me.”

Laughing, Esca pulled away again, “How can you enjoy it?”

“I want to please you, so let me.”

“And I want you to be satisfied and not merely _used_ ,” he got out of Marcus’ arms.

“We both want this!” Marcus said, but the sincerity somehow fell short, or perhaps over-shot the proper level. Regardless, Esca’s guard rose quickly.

The nobleman shook his head. “I do not want this. Another time when you are capable, yes, but I do not _need_ that to be tonight, as seems to be the case with you. My God, you’re like a scheming—“ the half-playful reprimand died as Esca saw Marcus’ shadowed face and the game was up.

“A scheming...” he said again blankly. And if the nobleman never looked a deer before, he certainly did now. The expression quickly hardened into anger. Esca’s chin set forward and his nostrils flared around a hard breath. “You’ve a child already?” It was hardly a question, for impotency was a common side effect to male pregnancy.

Marcus looked down, and allowed himself to press a hand to his abdomen as he confessed solemnly, “Yes.”

Esca sat as still as stone, and as the moment stretched in a terrifying silence, Marcus grew tense. His heart thumped loudly in his ears, and he felt like he was eighteen again, about to be ill before battle.

Then Esca moved. It was sudden, and Marcus reacted instinctually, moving away as if to avoid a blow and lifting a hand to deliver his own, but Esca moved away, off the bed on the opposite side and cradled his head.

“ _I am such a fool_ ,” he said hotly. Marcus shook but kept his pleas for mercy silent. He’d lied. He’d betrayed. He deserved whatever this man would do next.

Esca whirled, and his eyes were like fire again (as they often had been in the course of the engagement) but this time the fire was deadly and vicious. “You have _played_ me,” Esca said in disgust. He thumped the bed loudly. “This has been nothing but an act—a well thought strategy delivered by a cunning captain, indeed! Oh, I might have known your treachery already had I wished to see it—after all, what else should one expect after you successfully fooled all of Her Majesty’s regiment—nay,” he cut off with a shake of his head, “But for _one_ soldier, obviously. Your _engaged friend_ ,” he spoke the words like poison and looked at Marcus, unwavering and hard as nails. His voice was rough with revelation and anger held at bay. “I am a bloody fool! And you are a godforsaken liar. Leave this room. At once.”

Marcus closed his eyes but a tear fell anyway.

“Leave I say!” Esca shouted.

Marcus rose to his feet and fled into the valet’s room. The door shut loudly behind him and then came a crash into the wood, a hard punch that must not have injured the door but surely the fist. Esca cursed and Marcus heard things topple from the table tops. Fear gripped him as it never had before, and he felt his body shaking and flinching at the loud sounds, and there was wetness on his face—blast where had his courage gone? Damned changes! He felt not like a leader of men right now.

He crawled into the strange bed and pulled the covers close until the war on the other side of the wall came to an end. Marcus closed his eyes and wished he had not allowed his uncle to coerce him into this. He wished he had not given himself to Liathan, had not surrendered to his love in the first place.

As sweet as it had been, the kisses, the fullness, the sheer pleasure of it, it was not worth _this_. To be disgraced, humiliated, changing… broken.

Nothing in the world could possibly be worth any of this.

The sun breathed pale yellow light into the room, and the stubby candle Marcus had lit sputtered to the end of its existence, transforming to a ghostly ribbon of smoke and marking a full hour of silence from Esca’s room.

The door cracked open, and Esca peeked in, but Marcus slept curled on his side.

|||

Marcus woke suddenly, aware of soft voices nearby. Dawn glowed outside the window. He sat up quickly, alarmed by the strange little room in which he found himself. A moment later, he remembered the events that led to him being in a valet’s room. His stomach objected to having moved so quickly, and he stumbled out of a tangle of sheets to barely make the basin in the corner in time.

When he was sure he could leave the bowl, he straightened slowly and again heard voices from the other room. He pressed his ear to the door but could not make out what was being said. He carefully pulled the door open a crack and peeked in.

Esca sat on the edge of his bed but he was not alone. Another person—a young, pretty woman—sat with him with her back to Marcus, holding Esca’s hand. The nobleman leaned toward her as he spoke softly, a secret smile on his lips. Marcus could make out only a few words, “if only… such as you… very pretty…” and the girl giggled.

 _Have you met any of the house maids of Brigantes Abbey, Frnt. Captain? They say Lord Esca has a taste for them_.

As he watched Esca’s blue-grey eyes study the girl’s face closely, Marcus quite forgot to keep the gap he spied out of from getting too wide. Movement drew Esca’s attention, and he looked up, straight into Marcus’ eye.

Marcus shut the door and returned to the little bed.

He resorted to prayers of repentance for his schemes in the hope that asking forgiveness might save him from the worst of fates if Esca should annul the marriage and cast him out. Perhaps Italy would be a new and better beginning… He had drifted off back to sleep when a sound woke him.

It was full light out, nearly noon, and the sound was the door opening rather abruptly in the way that Marcus had come to expect from Esca.

The young Lord of the house was dressed for riding and looked to have been at it all morning. There was mud on his boots and trousers, and his hair was windswept, skin glowing with exercise and crisp air. His grey eyes were as constant and searing as ever, and his mouth was set downward in a shadow of his anger from last night.

Marcus wished he could be properly dressed for this confrontation.

“Good morning,” he said warily.

Esca did not even blink. Marcus gave up and draped an arm over his eyes, just hoped to fall asleep again and wake up back home, in loving arms. Imaginary arms. “You needn’t worry. I will be gone directly, and have my things sent after me.”

“No need.”

Marcus lifted his arm only a few inches, peeked through the loose folds of his sleeve to see that Esca had indeed said those two simple words. A breath of exasperation escaped Marcus. The sound tugged at the corners of the nobleman’s mouth—Marcus was quick to see it—but Esca did not smile. He moved about the room idly.

“Well, I _say_ no need,” Esca said almost conversationally. He stopped at the narrow window and rubbed at his brow, his back to Marcus. “If I could be given the full story, please...”

Marcus said nothing; he knew not where to begin. After a moment, Esca looked over his shoulder, eyes wide with an alarmed expression. “It was of your consent, was it not?”

“Oh, Heavens, yes,” Marcus said quickly. Esca’s face relaxed in unfeigned relief, but it soon hardened once more. He nodded and looked away again. “The father, then, your friend, his name?”

Again, Marcus could not answer. His voice had deserted him.

“I will not tell his wife. I simply seek all the facts before I make my final decision.”

“Whether or not to keep me?” Marcus asked darkly. Esca looked around, but Marcus did not give him time to speak. A sudden anger had risen in the fortunate soldier and—noticing that his clothes had been laid out for him neatly on a chair—he got out of the bed to dress, snarling. “What difference is it to you who the father of my child is? He has been my firmest friend for some twelve years! He is nothing like you and you are _nothing_ like him! You spend your days riding a horse through your peaceful hills. _He_ is a hero! In the heat of battle, he has rescued men who thought themselves lost and dying; he _carried_ them on his shoulders to safety!”

“A hero, you say?” Esca did not sound furious, merely intrigued by the definition, though there was force behind his words. “He fathers bastards and leaves his lovers in shame! Where is he? What does _his betrothed_ have to say about all of this?”

The words were not shouted, but they sliced deeply, and Marcus looked at the floor as he answered, muscles in his jaw jumping and voice on the very edge of control. “True, he is promised to another, but in a contract not unlike ours where it serves a need entirely outside of love; he would have married me had he been free to make his own choices, and it would have been because he wanted _me_ , not my money.”

“You speak of him as if he returns your love, yet he has allowed you to marry another!” For a reason beyond Marcus’ understanding, this seemed to infuriate Esca into a slight tremor with a dangerous hardness in his eyes. “Oh, pray tell me _exactly_ why it is he cannot save you, even though he so dearly would if he were able--what can it be? What stops him from protecting you as he should?”

Marcus made no reply and suffered a long withering look from Esca. Under that gaze, Marcus’ fingers shook as he closed the buttons of his trousers, which were beginning to feel tight already from his second helpings of everything. Good Lord in heaven, when the child actually began to grow he would be as big as a rhinoceros.

At length, the nobleman said, “Whoever he is, I do not doubt you love him; however, I do doubt his character--he hardly seems to deserve your affections.”

At this, Marcus whirled, reddened and ready to hit the smaller man in the face; no one would speak of Liathan in that way! “You will stand there and tell me I am blind? You will say I have attached myself to someone unworthy?”

“So it seems,” Esca replied with disarming calmness, “You were mistaken in your feelings, showed poor judgment, and have since been suffering the consequences.”

The unjust implications in this sentence stung, but Marcus could not help but wonder if it was true--had he been played a fool by Liathan’s whimsy? Marcus realized that this must be how Esca had felt since learning the full extent of the cruel deceptions he’d played right into. With these thoughts crackling like lightening through his mind with the force of his anger, Marcus stood his ground, against Esca’s accusations as well as his own doubts.

“You imply I do not know what it is to love? You think I am giving too much credit to infatuation! He is not some twink I encountered in a whore house while on leave; I have been at his side for _twelve_ years. I know him, and I know the love we shared!”

“You married me, a man who is not him--how can you do such a thing if you truly love this man?”

“I could not marry him; he has _given his word_ _to a woman_!”

“What has that to do with it? He made no vows to God. If I were in the gentleman’s shoes, I would break my word with a woman before I allowed my love to become a liar who schemed and vowed himself to another! I will say it again, he does not seem to deserve your affections, nor do you seem to understand that what you have so far called love has been nothing more than lust.”

“HOW DARE YOU?”

“How dare I? Because you have yet to give me a reason why he is, to use you’re words, unable to save you and your child. A decent man with a true heart filled with love for you should stand by you in this predicament, contracts be damned. He is a cad and you, sadly, duped by his empty charms.”

The muscles in Marcus’ shoulder bunched as if to throw a punch, but he controlled himself and strode for the door instead, to get away before he could no longer contain his temper. “I will not stand by and be insulted thus.”

Marcus threw open the door. “I will not have it done to the woman on _my_ account! Cast us off, loath me if you wish,” he said, “for I do deserve it after such a scheme, but I gave myself _in_ _love_ to a man of honor and firmest friendship. He and I have shared a tenderness that you know nothing of. I only married you for the sake of my child, and I will not be ashamed of my actions any longer!”

“Marcus,” Esca caught his arm and his hold was firm—surprisingly firm; Marcus recalled the days before the wedding, when Esca had pinned him to the walls with fiery ease. He was so much stronger than he seemed to be. Marcus lost his breath. It was a direct order when the nobleman spoke, “Calm down before you harm the child.”

“Don’t tell me to calm down!” Marcus snapped, ripping his arm from Esca’s grasp, but he silenced himself, aware that he had gone into a fit so similar to one of his mother’s that he was mortified. He realized he was barefoot and sat down to put on his boots.

Esca moved around the room again as Marcus tied up his laces, the strings popping in their brackets the only noise for several long minutes. Esca broke the silence gently, “I had hoped...”

Marcus glanced over his shoulder and saw Esca shake his head as if to chase off pestering thoughts. “When we married, I had hoped you knew that I wished--someday--for more from you than your money, Marcus. For the tenderness you spoke of.”

“I know,” Marcus admitted, dropping his second booted foot to the floor with a loud thump. He rubbed his face. “It was clear you had your heart set on a marriage of love and faithfulness; I will confess I used it in my schemes, and for that I am truly sorry. But I have never been able to feel for you in that way. How can I? Contrary to what you may believe, I am not a fickle man who will lie with a cherished friend and then a stranger.”

“Then why have you behaved so?”

“It was not for me--none of it was for me, do you not see? I had to make you believe the child to be yours, for if he is Cunoval, and not Aquila, he will never be met with hostility. The shame brought on my family by my father--it would only serve as permission for others to scorn the condition of his birth freely and without consequence; it is _my_ mistake, and I hoped only to save him from it…” he sat for a moment with his eyes closed, and then he looked over at Esca, “You make yourself a fool in speaking as if you know my heart, sir.”

The stoic nobleman looked calmly back and Marcus continued, “I have been captured, _heart and soul_ , by someone else. Perhaps my actions are not what you would have them be, but there it is; and maybe there is a little truth in your words about the father, he might well be a poor choice for he has surprised me with cowardice. He pretends our time together was not special to him; I know otherwise, because I know _him_. He will stop denying himself one day.”

“I disagree.”

“You do not know him.” Marcus’ words were heavy in the air, Liathan’s face was before his eyes as clear as day, and a pain rang in his chest. It reminded him of the sensations described by soldiers who had lost limbs. They said the arm or leg remained in pins and needles, not flesh.

“I married you for my child, Esca. Holding true to my heart by staying true to my lover would have been an ill service to my own flesh and blood. Born out of wedlock to the deceiving whorish twink of the militia, _Aquila’s_ _bastard_ they would call him…”

“His father’s identity could protect him from the worst of such scorn. As you have said, with a surname delivering a known parentage, and your money, there is little anyone could say against him. Illegitimate or not.”

With a derisive snort, Marcus mumbled, “You must not have heard of Flavius Aquila.”

“No, I have not,” Esca said calmly, truthfully, “I confess surprise upon hearing that the name should hold any amount of ridicule whatsoever for I have only ever heard the name of Aquila with fond praise from my father. He loved your uncle, and never once mentioned your father. Believe me, Marcus; by the time this child is grown, his grandfather’s transgressions will have been lived down. But the unanswered question of his paternity will never go ignored.”

“I have never had the intention or the desire to reveal the father’s identity, nor will I ever. I will not dishonor the man by bringing his shame to the public.” Marcus thought his uncle might be onto the identity ever since Liathan’s visit, but Capt. Aquila would never reveal his suspicions.

“Protecting the father’s ill-deserved good name is doing your child no favors,” Esca cut in. “No one trusts someone whose very heritage is in question, who could be the child of a gypsy or a beggar or a thief…”

“Which is precisely why I endeavored to marry you!” Marcus snapped, “Believed to be Cunoval, his blood would never be in suspicion; but I fear that is still a failure, for no one will know he is the son of a hero…” Bubbles turned suddenly in his stomach, and Marcus lurched for the basin once again.

When he was finished being ill, Esca was at his elbow. Marcus startled at the touch of the nobleman’s strong, slender hand on his arm as he was led backwards to the bed. “You are making yourself ill. Please, rest.”

“I am well,” Marcus hissed, reclaiming his arm, but he allowed himself to be ushered back into the bed. The room tilted like a ship, and Marcus had never been good with boats. He lay back on the pillows fully dressed, and Esca pulled off his boots.

“No—no, this is a servant’s work not a nobleman’s—“ Marcus said when his wits caught up.

“Hush, now, Marcus, and rest,” Esca said, fanning the rumpled blankets back over him and tucking him in. “You are forgetting you are not a solider any more, your body can barely keep up with your spirit.”

Marcus could only lie there and watch nobility tuck him in with quiet resolve. The silence was broken with Marcus prodding, “You mean to annul the wedding.”

Esca shook his head. “What good would that do?”

“But...”

“This will continue as a business arrangement,” Esca said with stoicism that Marcus sensed was covering a stinging wound he was not worthy of being privy to. “You will have shelter from further scorn here, if nothing else, and in exchange, you free me of my debts. One day--if you can ever admit that you are wrong--we may even be friends.”

Marcus ignored the insult to his sense of right and wrong and asked, “And the child...?”

“Premature. Or wasn’t that the plan?”

Marcus gulped. Esca went about putting away Marcus’ boots. He got the sense the nobleman was merely trying to keep himself busy in the awkward silence. Marcus broke it,

“The servants must be whispering, they will have heard a few things last night—oh, you’re hand—“ For the first time, Marcus saw that Esca’s hand was bandaged and he remembered Esca hitting the door in the tempest of his rage.

“I thought the same, so first thing this morning I rang for someone to come up so that I might offer explanations. However, I was told no one has a thought that the night did not pass pleasantly, that you and this unnamed cad disguised as a hero have robbed me of what should have been a night to change me, heart and soul. Rest assured, no one but you and I and one intensely loyal head house keeper skilled in the art of bandaging a severely bruised hand knows of what happened last night.”

Marcus remembered the girl sitting in Esca’s bed early this morning, holding his hand. The nobleman walked to the door. Before he was gone, Marcus made a snap decision and stopped him, “Your Lordship, the father....”

Esca paused and looked back, with his eyebrows strung up together on his forehead. Marcus twitched a hand in front of his lips to hide the smile Esca’s wide ears birthed every time. He had meant to never ever reveal the father, but Esca had made one point that Marcus could not ignore; the secret would cast a shadow over the child in Esca’s eyes, whereas the truth would force respect from the nobleman.

Marcus cleared his throat and looked away as he confessed, “the father is Prince Liathan.”

The stunned reaction was to be expected. Esca’s lips parted and his jaw dropped, but he returned to propriety quickly with a lick of his lips and a deep breath. “Well...then the ruse will be complete.”

“Your Lordship?”

Esca smiled; amused to some small degree and nodded toward Marcus’ stomach. “He will even smell like a noble.”

Marcus laughed as the door leading back into the master bedroom clicked softly closed.


	5. Playacting

An hour later, the door suddenly gusted open, and Esca stepped back into the valet’s room. To Marcus’ surprise, the nobleman was once again in his nightshirt and even wore a coy smile. Several breaths of thought passed before Marcus defined the strange expression on that face as one of bashfulness.

“Marcus, join me.” Esca nodded back into the master bedroom and then disappeared once more.

Heart suddenly pounding, Marcus obeyed. Esca had climbed into the bed and looked rather small in his billowy night shirt against huge pillows.

“We must discuss our grand lie,” he said.

“You refer to the child being passed as yours?”

One sharp nod, “It must be believable.”

Marcus huffed, bewildered and unable to believe his luck, “You will honestly do this for me?”

Esca studied him and then answered, “My anger stems from your lies, Marcus. I’m sure that, with some thought, I would have agreed to this if only you had been straight forward with me that day at the hunt. You see, I needed your money as badly as you needed my hand. Had you taken a chance and placed a little faith in me, we could have begun on even footing, neither of us the fool, and my anger would have never gotten the better of me.”

In the pause following this confession, he looked Marcus up and down, the articles of his uniform he still wore from having half-dressed himself earlier. “Get into a night shirt.”

It took but a moment to step behind the screen and remove his clothes, dropping the long shirt over his head.

Marcus stood awkwardly in the middle of the room in his night shirt, feeling naked due to the chill around his privates. There were a few more beats of silence, though they were far from quiet in Marcus’ ears. He heard the blood thundering out of his chest like the whole herd of Esca’s horses rushing to freedom.

“Your Lordship—I don’t understand,” he admitted, “Are you suggesting we—”

“No!” Esca cut in urgently and then, flushing a little and looking away, he added. “No, Marcus. I do not … That is to say I did not know you as I thought I did. And I will have it that I know—and love—the person with whom I share myself. In that sense, at least, tis a blessing that you could not perform last night; it has given me time to think about what I truly desire. You said yourself that we should never settle for anything less than what we want. And I will have your heart.”

“It belongs to another.”

“So I have been informed.” Esca bounced himself over to one side of the bed and patted the blankets beside him, “But for the sake of selling your lies further, we must put on a good show here and there. When the breakfast tray arrives, it best look as if we are properly wed. Now climb in, please, s’am, and-- try to look buggered if you can.”

Marcus snorted in the first twinge of real amusement in weeks, perhaps even the months since his discharge from the regiment, “I believe that will be an easy feat, Your Lordship, as your commitment to saving me has me quite out of my mind as it is.”

Esca grinned. Marcus climbed into the bed and under the covers beside his husband.

“We will come together every morning for breakfast to complete the illusion. Then, when our honeymoon is over and valets can be hired, propriety gives you your own room. From there, we will occasionally share the covers through the night—in mutual respect and chasteness—In order to secure the illusion of continued marital bliss. I will _not_ have it said in Brigantes that I never share a bed with my husband.”

Marcus nodded.

“When your condition advances, we can stop the act. It is a common practice, I hear, in fortunate marriages, for doctors to forbid such things as soon as possible.”

Marcus hummed ruefully. “They fear our changing hormone levels, its direct effect on our threshold of pain, and what the stress of it can do to the child.”

Esca’s eyebrows lowered and he blinked slowly. “Does it truly affect as much as all that?”

“So I’ve read, but I have no personal accounts to share on the matter—YOUCH!” Marcus’ sharp cry of pain might have even made the glass in the windows rattle. Esca had taken a thin fold of skin on Marcus’ arm and twisted. Immediately, Marcus was ashamed, for a man should never reveal his pain so forthrightly.

“There,” Esca looked the picture of innocence, “the pain was more intense than usual?”

Marcus choked at those eyes, so alight with unnamable fire and so unwavering. No shame; that was what it was. Lord Esca cared not that he just broke the purest and simplest kind of trust. Marcus rubbed the red spot on his arm in tight circles and attempted to glare at the man hunkered so comfortably in his pillows, but for some reason, Marcus laughed instead. “No. I believe my reaction was mostly out of surprise.”

“Alright then, here it goes again, ready?” and as fast as that the nobleman grabbed a hank of hair on Marcus’ head and ripped. The soldier yelped in pain, swore, and tackled his opponent in nothing but pure instinct and the energy that came from lying so close to a warm body in a sun-dappled, luxurious bed.

“Damn you, sir!” Marcus growled with difficulty because that bizarre amusement weakened the effect, “my scalp has always been the _most tender_ —“

A knock interrupted what had amounted to honest laughter between them both. They were silenced immediately, and Marcus found that almost all of his weight was positioned over the nobleman, his pale wrists pinned at his ears. Esca’s eyes were wide and burning with that curious fire and those ears were even bigger up close with his hair askance.

A small smile played on the mother man’s lips.

Esca gulped and called in response to the second knock, “Come in.”

The door opened as Marcus rolled back to his side of the bed.

“Good morning, m’lords,” a young man said with a put-on casualness. Marcus recognized one of the industrious servants tasked to fill multiple roles on the penniless estate. His name was Peter, eighteen if a day, and on the verge of blushing as his eyes skated around the room, not quite settling on the bed.

Both Marcus and Esca were both suffering from a blush as well, one the exact shade of the apple slices on the tray he carried. The servant merely looked ready to drop the tray and disappear quickly.

“Yes—huggnmm!” Esca cleared his throat as he sat up decently. “I forgot I asked for a tray,” he lied, “Thank you, Peter.”

He sat the tray on the foot of the bed, bowed, and left.

With the click of the latch (which was lost under the clatter of his heartbeat in his ears) Marcus found that he could look at Esca once more. The nobleman, so flustered and red seconds ago, now looked as collected and pale as ever.

He drew a deep breath as if surfacing from water and crawled forward to fetch the tray. The apple slice was crisp and thick and Marcus saw juice spray succulently as the nobleman snapped it in half with his teeth. “That went well.”

Marcus licked his lips and attempted a laugh, “You are a fine actor.”

“Yourself as well; but that much has already been established,” Esca said nobly with a wicked grin.

They toasted their glasses of juice, and Marcus sipped with something close to a proud smile on his face. As he chewed, the lord of the house lay back on the pillows and opened his fist.

“Forgive me for tearing out so much of your hair. I did not think it would be that easy to do. We Cunovals have very thick roots.” As he spoke, he sprinkled the seven or eight strands of Marcus’ dark hair over the edge of the bed into the floor. Marcus rubbed the tender spot on his scalp, chuckling. “All is well. I didn’t even feel it.”

“You screamed as if you had.”

“I did not.” Marcus swiped more than half of the segmented apple for himself, settling into the pillows to enjoy the claw full of fruit.

“You did,” Esca insisted. “But fear not, your greatest weakness is safe with me.”

With a mouthful, Marcus threw his last apple slice at him. Esca picked the food out of the folds of his shirt and stuffed it into his mouth with an impish grin.

|||

The hours between breakfast and lunch, they spent on opposite ends of the room. Marcus took a seat in the window and studied the landscape of his new home and occasionally his bare toes as he staved off boredom with silent observation.

Esca sat himself at the writing desk and ran a feathered quill through his fingers pensively but had written nothing. Before mid-day, Marcus had had enough of inner reflection and polite silence. Even though Esca had finally started to write, he spoke,

“Must we stay in this room all day?”

“Yes,” was the ready, weary answer. It was as if Esca had been asking himself the same question. “Imagine how a normal married couple would spend the first day of their lives together,” he said rather uncomfortably. Marcus shifted, but truthfully he had been doing little else and all but aching for time alone with his prince to practice the notions.

Esca’s ears were red as he scratched away at the paper to finish a thought and then continued, “One day at least. Tomorrow afternoon we may venture about the grounds.”

“Must we stay trapped in here that much longer?”

“Our choices are to stay in here, where we may be free to sit in our true states of mind, or go before others and put on the show of being happily joined....which would you prefer?”

Marcus picked at something between his toes and then let his head fall back on the cool glass, and his bare foot thumped to the floor. “Here, please. I have not the strength to sell such a convincing lie any longer...”

Esca made a noise of consent and resumed his writing.

Marcus rubbed his elbow. “Why must we put on the act?”

“Hm?”

“You insist on persuading the world to believe we are blissfully joined. Why?”

Esca looked up, watched Marcus in perfect stillness and silence for a moment, and then answered, calmly, “It is what I have always promised myself I would have when I married. If I will not actually have it, then I will at least let the world believe I do.” He returned to his letter, adding, “In honor of my parents, I suppose.”

Guilt brought Marcus to silence, and the scratch of the quill continued. He rolled his head on the glass, breathed on it, drew shapes in the fog, and then sat up. “It is too still in here! Forgive me, but quiet hours do not sit well with me, they never have. I feel as if I am being twisted into a cocoon of silence that will smother me if I do not break out.”

“What a spectacular analogy, s’am, from one in your condition; it is rather like a metamorphosis, is it not?”

Marcus groaned. “I simply mean to say that my thoughts, as you can imagine, are quite everywhere and nowhere at once, and I need a direction to focus my mind. Let us have a conversation.”

“We are having one.”

“Then let us change the subject. What are you writing about?”

“Just a letter to a cousin,” Esca dropped the quill to show its level of importance. He even grimaced at the tedious task and stood to put his back to it. “You are right, there is little to do in this bedroom.”

“But we must stay in here as long as we possibly can,” Marcus groaned.

“I know little on the matter, but I imagine it tapers off for even blissfully joined couples to the point that they appear downstairs as proper with one another as ever. If we conceal ourselves behind these doors for a day at least—maybe two—then any distance between us may be accepted as the ultimate familiarity.” Esca said, pulling the blankets on the bed down to the foot so that he may recline on the pillows without them in his way.

At the sight of the bare white sheets, something rather singular yet wildly important occurred to Marcus. He stood abruptly.

“What is the matter?” Esca asked, alarmed.

“Do you have a pen-knife, or a needle, anything that draws blood?”

The look on the nobleman’s face was one of perfectly understandable horror. “In the desk. What need have you for such an instrument?”

Marcus strode across the room in four large bounds and acquired the penknife. Then, with little time to dwell on the matter, he seated himself on the bed next to the nobleman, hiked his nightshirt above the knee, peeled back the legging of his smalls, and pressed the point of the small blade into his kneecap among the scars.

Esca gasped. Through gritted teeth, Marcus hissed, but dabbed the blood to the sheet. “There. For the servants to find.”

“I...I had no idea—is that _normal_?”

Marcus felt heat around his nose and ears. “There was a definite inner breech of some kind, and a light amount of blood was the result. It was not painful,” Marcus found himself promising, as if it was any of Esca’s business.

His mind filled with memory, the uncomfortable stretch of Liathan’s first entry—enough to bring water to his eyes but nothing he hadn’t been able to handle--but then just as the motions had begun there had been a biting rip deep inside which had pushed all breath and a yelp from him, but it was followed by a most immediate pleasure as Liathan showed him a part of himself he’d known nothing about, a special place hidden inside that brought such thrills...

Marcus had thanked his lucky stars that Liathan had seen the blood and only assumed he’d been too rough with Marcus, as apparently wasn’t uncommon for him. He’d apologized sweetly, made it up to him…

Now, the blood on the sheet between Marcus and Esca was mocking, a red badge of deceit. Esca studied it with a worried frown, looking somewhat devastated, as if magic had been revealed to have a dark side. “In my experience nothing which produces blood is wholly without pain.”

“Brief, then,” Marcus snapped. “But I assure you it is perfectly natural and nothing like a comment on the force of Liathan’s attentions.”

Esca looked and looked and _looked_ at him. Marcus cleaned off the pen knife, closed it and handed it to his husband, pressing a thumb hard into the cut in his flesh to stop the bleeding. A long moment passed and Esca’s eyes were still on him so Marcus asked with bluntness similar to that of his bedfellow, “I take it, then, that you are a virgin.”

“Of course not, I’m married!” Esca snorted promptly with a motion to the soiled blankets. There was a beat of silence, and then they were both laughing, Marcus grudgingly acknowledging that the young Lord Cunoval did appear to have a knack for holding fast to the ruse.

Snickering, Marcus lay back and asked, “But none of your young conquests were maidens?”

Esca’s laughter dwindled down and he looked tired, though not unhappy, “Oh, so you _have_ heard the rumors. I was wondering.”

“They are just rumors, then?”

Esca nodded shortly. “You have caught me at a disadvantage, Marcus. One night of lustrous passion has made you the expert while I remain a blushing bachelor.”

“One night of sincerest love,” Marcus corrected without heat, moving right along with his point as Esca had done, “And I am hardly free of rosy cheeks myself.” He pressed the back of his fingers to his warmed face, “My condition is keeping me sensitive to many things that never before moved me. And this talk is doing nothing to keep the night from my mind.”

“My apologies,” Esca said at once.

“No, no,” Marcus grinned, “The honest truth is that the experience is hardly far from my mind at any time.” He thought he could get used to speaking of such things so freely if Esca would always look this uncomfortable; it was about time the tables were turned and Marcus was not the one squirming under an unforgiving gaze.

Esca cleared his throat and looked away as he said as nonchalantly as he could manage, “I do wonder what it is like.”

Marcus’ blood spiked, and his body instantly took note of their positions, undressed and laying side by side and within arm’s reach... His boredom throughout the morning had reached a level where the activity was an attractive proposal simply for the notion of being _occupied_ in any way.

He gulped, slid across the sheets smooth as liquid and found Esca’s stomach a pleasing combination of softness, firmness, and warmth beneath his palm as he asked, “Shall you find out now?”

He felt Esca stop breathing under his hand. He rolled his coppery bronze head on his pillow to look over at Marcus, eyes wide, voice soft, “You are offering yourself to me?”

“Why not?” Marcus asked with a smirk, oh he was really starting to like this idea, “We have spent the morning proving that there is no better way to pass the hours of a honeymoon.”

Suddenly, Marcus was alone in the bed, Esca quite out of reach. His face was hard and he drilled that piercing gaze into Marcus, “One moment you will swear your sincerest love for the prince and the next offer yourself to me?”

Marcus groaned, “Only because I am RESTLESS! If you will not fuck me then for God’s Sake let us leave this room!”

His shout reverberated and Esca’s eyes flashed dangerously. He opened his mouth to no doubt reprimand Marcus for shouting about things that properly wedded and bedded husbands did not shout about when in that very moment, the great clock downstairs struck the hour, signaling tea.

They both looked at the door as if through it they could see to the great hall where Peter would be carrying their next tray carefully up the stairs. Marcus looked apprehensively at Esca, unsure of how they would recreate another blissful scene like last time.

“I will be asleep,” Marcus suggested quickly. Esca brightened with the plan and nodded. The next thing Marcus knew, he had been pulled into Esca’s arms and made to lay with his ear at Esca’s pounding heart. He shut his eyes and attempted to look serene whilst Esca’s fingers combed softly into his hair.

When the boy knocked, Esca bid him to enter quietly. His stroking fingers did not cease as Marcus listened to the rattle of china on the tray with Peter’s careful footsteps, Esca’s heartbeat, and his halting breath as he thanked the servant once again, adding softly “Look at him, Peter. Is he not beautiful like this?”

To be called _beautiful_ was a slight to his pride that nearly made Marcus want to speak up in self-defense, but he remained still in Esca’s arms. There was a soft consent from the lad, murmured instructions on where to place the tray for now with more kind thanks, and then they were alone. With the click of the latch, Marcus opened his eyes and sat up without a word. Esca smiled tightly and headed for the tray, “I hope you like cold beef sandwiches.”

|||

“THERE IS A MAN PROPERLY BUGGERED AND NO MISTAKE!”

This was how Marcus’ father-in-law greeted him for tea the next day out in the garden before they were even in proper speaking distance. Marcus colored deeply and Esca looked truly horrified, shouted back, “Father, really, for Heaven’s sake!”

It was the second day of Marcus’ married life, and he prayed to God it did not drag out half as long as yesterday had. Today, Marcus wore his pretty clothes happily. This was partly due to the fact that he now knew with certainty that he loathed spending an entire day in his night clothes, but it was also the simplicity of today’s suit which won him over to the fashion.

In the sun’s heat, he had removed the plain black jacket he had managed to rescue from his mother’s needle after his debut, when she had attacked his entire wardrobe with bright thread. But, alas, no plain shirts or cravats had been spared the dyes. Without the shielding black jacket, his sleeves screamed a rich teal and he wore a mustard yellow cravat. An absence of lace made it a favorite for Marcus, and whenever he crossed his reflection, he found himself diverted from wayward thought by the way the color accented the glow of his skin, and for the first time, he understood why his complexion received the most compliments.

The Old Man was cackling as they achieved his lawn tent, and settled down in the shade to enjoy the air without the glaring sun. Nurse Sasstica was in her usual grey skirts and white cap, busy peeling an orange and doing a clever job at keeping the peel in one piece.

For just a moment, Marcus was ready to have a pleasant meal. Then,

“GOOD NIGHT WAS IT, BOYS?”

Esca sat the teapot down harshly. “Father, I must protest, we are not discussing this!”

“CALM YOURSELF, SON, EVEN _I_ HEARD THE CRASHING AROUND ON THE WEDDING NIGHT! ENJOY IT ROUGH, DO YOU, CAPTAIN?”

This time, Nurse Sasstica did gasp, rightly shocked by such a direct and un-orderly question. Esca passed a hand over his eyes in a gesture that Marcus took to be part of a desperate prayer for strength.

“Father,” Esca gritted tightly, but he did not go on, because Marcus had begun to laugh.

He could not explain his slightly drunken sort of laughter, nor stop it. He was simply, unaccountably, tickled. When his companions eyed him curiously, he blushed for his silliness but could not contain the insane emotion.

“Good lord, I haven’t a clue what has gotten into me,” he confessed between snickers.

“TWO GUESSES WHO,” the Old Man said, jutting a thumb at Esca. Marcus gasped and howled with laughter even as the unmarried Nurse Sasstica and her nearly peeled orange took themselves elsewhere for the time being.

“All right, enough of this! That is the end of the discussion! Father, mind your own business!” Esca said hotly. His jaw was extended forward and clenched tight, giving him the look now of a bulldog guarding a bone. He even leaned forward a little as if to catch the brunt of the attack and save him. “Marcus, please excuse my aging father,” he said to him alone, as his neutral volume would not land on those elderly ears. “We do not have to take tea with him if you are rightly offended.”

Marcus shook his head, breathing in the dying summer air, satisfied. “No. I am not. He is a soldier first, as am I. Such speech makes me feel part of a barracks again.”

Esca eyed Marcus suspiciously for a moment. Marcus would refrain from smiling if he could, but truly there was no stopping his strange happiness.  Esca stood. “Very well. I shall deliver an apology to Nurse Sasstica.”

Ashamed that the soldier’s banter had driven away a perfectly sweet woman, Marcus at last gained a handle on the bizarre amusement. He watched Esca cut across the rolling green lawn to the shaded path where the lady had taken her refuge.

The wind toyed with the corners of their napkins, and the Old Man said to no one in particular, “My Alice was the most beautiful blushing bride…”

Marcus was touched to hear the devotion in the old man’s voice, and his heart hurt that he could not marry the man who would forever remember Marcus in such a way.

_Dark hair in sweaty clumps, the color of physical exertion blooming across his cheeks under his chocolate eyes, Liathan had walked about the room in stark nudity, completely at ease and utterly divine in his long, thin frame, wiry muscle and furry dark body hair. He’d dropped the wet cloths back into the basin and then made proper stacks of their discarded clothes before jumping back into the bed. His attempt to get under the covers nearly pulled them completely off of Marcus, who too quickly held them where they were to keep himself covered in the broad daylight of the room._

_“Look at you,” Liathan had breathed reverently, laughing lightly and leaning in. His voice had a delicious way of going lower the nearer their lips came. “You’re such a warm shade of pink, my dearest. Most alluring…” While distracting Marcus with kisses, he’d pulled at the covers to remove them entirely, but Marcus had cut the kisses short to catch them._

_“Stop it,” he had murmured, “It is too cold without them.”_

_Liathan playfully gasped with extreme over exaggeration. “You are chilled?” He turned into him, practically lying atop him, proclaiming as if to a surgical team, “I will not have it so that my love is not properly cared for!” With fiery urgency, he chaffed Marcus’ upper arms as if to save him from frigid waters, “Come, Marcus, snuggle in close to me.”_

_Snickering, Marcus had complied teasing, “You are quiet silly when too much blood has left your head, my darling.”_

_Liathan had barked with laughter, kissed Marcus repeatedly…_

He was stolen from the sweet memory by the return of Esca and Sasstica to the quiet luncheon table. The nurse took her seat with kind returns of Marcus’ now sober greetings, and Esca looked closely between his father and his new husband as if he meant to read the dialogue that had transpired in his absence.

“Has he calmed down?” Esca asked.

“Yes, I should hope so.” Marcus said, even as the old man blinked and looked over at them and cackled to himself.

“FORTUNATE CAPTAIN CUNOVAL, haha!” Over their meal, the Old Man continued wheezing and wheezing every time he glanced up and saw the soldier mother man in the seat between himself and his son. “HE FOUGHT IN WARS AND THEN SURRENDERS TO THE LIKES OF ESCA! HA! PROUD OF YOU, MY BOY!”

Marcus glanced discreetly at Esca, who was very red again as he smiled tightly and drily thanked his father for such a skewed compliment. If only it was true.

 _He is nothing like you and you are nothing like him_ —the memory of Marcus’ own hateful words sparked between them as lightening, and Marcus felt a drop as if he’d missed a step (as their amiable and somewhat boring past day together was scourged right out of existence by the memory.) Esca’s fist knotted the napkin beside his plate.

“YOU KNOW, MARCUS, WE THOGUHT ESCA WOULD BE A TWINK THE FIRST HALF OF HIS LIFE! HIS MOTHER DIED STILL EXPECTING A LATE BLOOM IN HIM!”

Tense, Esca’s lips parted and Marcus, unthinking, covered his hand quickly before he said something in anger he might not mean. The action was enough to derail all thoughts from both their minds.

Marcus gulped and retracted his hand almost apologetically. Esca’s eyes tracked the movement with that same steady glare of his. It struck Marcus then that Esca had learned his mean little act of shamelessness in order to fend off the common assumption that his small stature and thin frame equaled a man of fruitful fortune.

It was an assumption Marcus himself would have made had he met this nobleman anywhere else. He had no doubts Esca’s searing gaze and hard chin helped greatly in that resulting nightmare of a conversation-turned-awkward-moment each time this misstep occurred and Esca had to set a gentleman straight.

Marcus cleared his throat to change the subject, “Lord Cunoval, you know, I have not heard any of your stories from your regiment days! Pray tell a few my uncle wouldn’t know, so that I may be caught up with this side of my family’s history!”

One side of Esca’s face lifted. He tried to tug it down, but it drew higher, and he fiddled with the napkin as all fire was finally drawn off and the newly married couple were left to eat their meal in peace while the Old Man shouted about the good old days before twinks were allowed to slip through the ranks.

“I am sorry about him,” Esca said lamentably. The nurse was now coaxing the Old Man to eat between sentences, but Esca did not speak until his father was speaking, least he be bid to repeat himself more loudly. This way, the Old Man was not even aware of the aside conversation.

Marcus’ perpetual smile softened a great deal at the open show of pain in the young nobleman as Esca looked at his father. “His hearing worsens by the day I’m afraid, and his mind weakens with it. He forgets that he is not a common soldier any more, that his great uncle left him this place and as a Lord, he is now meant to act in a certain manner.”

“It is fine, Your Lordship, truly,” Marcus said. “Words do not break my tough skin.”

“I am glad to hear it. What a useful thing to be born with, tough skin. Don’t you agree?”

“Oh yes. I do hope—our child,” Marcus glanced up at the nurse as he faltered over the pronoun—“one day will benefit from such breeding.”

“No doubt he will. Any child born of you in this house will be as noble as a king.”

Marcus grinned and resisted the urge to kick him for such a daring comment.

|||

After their meal, Esca walked with Marcus about the house and surrounding gardens. It felt good to be out and about and not trapped in one room with unforgiving honesty breathing down his neck. Though wicked and unchristian, Marcus escaped willingly into the act of deceit; but he did so now with a partner in crime.

They walked about the immediate grounds with their fingers linked in case they should stumble upon anyone. While they used to walk hand in hand frequently in the engagement, it was different now that Esca knew the truth. Marcus had to focus on not reclaiming his hand as he yearned to do, and when they paused behind an ancient tree to pluck up some wild strawberries on the hill there, he released Esca’s fingers happily, murmuring his excuse, “my hands are sweaty from the changes; forgive me.”

“You do not have to do that,” Esca said with a light chuckle.

“Do what, may I ask?” Marcus was forced to inquire when he could not make a connection to any meaning.

“Despite my outrage, and the unkind things I have said to you, for which I must apologize, I do respect you--what you are willing to do for your child. That is a kind of bravery I had never considered until you presented it to me. So, please, do not think to cheapen our charade on my account. I know quite personally that you are capable of feigning wild ardor. Sell it now as you did then, Marcus,” there was a gleam of humor in Esca’s eye, “I will do my best to keep up with you.”

With their fill of the wild berries, they resumed their walk, hand in hand, heading back towards the house. Marcus grinned absently, a twinge of regret. Esca was proving to be a fine companion, a sincere and playful fellow. If only he had, as Esca put it, taken a chance and had a little faith…

How different would things be now, if he’d been truthful?

Would they be tangled in the sheets at this very moment, shy but ardent and climbing together for release?

“Marcus,” Esca said, bringing his hand up to lightly kiss the back of it, “Do me the service of laughing giddily like you did before over tea, as if I have tickled you with wit, and then kiss me.”

“Pardon me?”

“We are being watched,” Esca said with a smile to disguise his weariness. “Nurse Sasstica finds us most interesting. I will have her see we are happy together.”

“So you’ve said many times, Your Lordship,” Marcus murmured, pasting a completely unnatural smile to his face and attempting to shake his shoulders in mirth. He felt like an imbecile. “But surely we needn’t take it too far?”

Esca fixed him with that stare and said, “These excessive acts now will save us a lifetime of whispers. There is a child on the way, if you have not forgotten, and the more entwined we seem, the less suspicion will be cast on us both when you give birth two months too early.”

“Of course…” he said softly. They were standing in the same space now. Esca’s fingers trailed over the nape of his neck, traced his strong jaw. Marcus gulped, and hardly had to pretend to be effected by the caress. Their lips met for but a moment and then it was over, as Esca resumed propriety and they parted once again, still linked by their fingers.

Marcus grew instantly tired of the charade and began to drag Esca into the house, and the privacy of the bedroom, where they might be true once again. “Tis a small enough price to pay for freedom, I suppose. Let them miss us for the rest of the day.”


	6. The Secrets of the Willow

Tea in the parlor the next day was, for Marcus, blissfully quiet. The Old Man remained in bed, leaving the common rooms peaceful. Marcus sat across from Esca, who read his paper as he soaked each biscuit in his tea for every bite, occasionally trailing spots on the table linen during the transfer from cup to mouth. The thoughtless stains annoyed Marcus, but he kept his opinions to himself.

The night before had been a hellish endeavor toward sleep for Marcus (insistent on tormenting him were dreams of a life long gone, of a love forever out of reach) and so he had felt rather moody and despondent all morning. Any of Esca’s attempts at conversation had been met with short returns or none at all, and by now Esca had taken the hint and had turned his full attention on the print news in his hand.

But the quiet of the day was interrupted by head house keeper, Cottia, when she slipped into the parlor to inform Esca that a Mr. Lestrade, the man temporarily in charge of running things as Esca stayed home to dote on his fortune, had come to discuss urgent estate business. Marcus caught a glimpse of the man as Esca followed the head housekeeper out of the parlor and into the front hall to meet him.

Mr. Lestrade was tall and rather dashing with silver hair and a strong clean-shaven jaw. Marcus had met him once or twice during the engagement. The fellow had been among the few men kind enough to speak to Marcus in a natural attitude, not striving to praise or dote on him, not teasing or ridiculing him, but rather treating him like an equal. It had been pleasant enough that the sight of the man now lifted Marcus’ spirits a little.

Marcus could not tell what business matter had brought Lestrade to the house, for they were too far away to be properly heard. He idly wondered if he shouldn’t get up and go out, say hello, invite Mr. Lestrade to tea or whatever it was Fortunate Lords were supposed to do. But Marcus stayed seated, because he would rather not put on a big smile and insist, as decorum dictated, that his first few days of married life were everything one could ever dream of having.

Footsteps on the marble heralded Esca returning to the parlor, Mr. Lestrade waiting behind. Upon reaching him, Esca did not shut the door behind him and spoke lowly, “There is a small matter that I must attend to, Marcus.”

“Anything I can help with?” Marcus asked, eager at the prospect of leaving the house and _doing_ something.

“No, no,” Esca insisted, “A small matter. I will be back within the hour.” He licked his lips and then said even lower, stepping closer, “Attempt to keep me here so that Lestrade will see.”

Marcus frowned, “But you said you will be back within the hour.”

“Yes, but pretend an hour is too long for you to be apart from me.”

Marcus snorted, “You’re being ridiculous.”

“Such is how lovers do, Marcus,” Esca insisted. “Quickly, now, take hold of me and kiss me.”

“Just go, Esca,” Marcus insisted, lifting out of his chair to retrieve Esca’s abandoned paper from across the table. He glanced over Esca’s shoulder, saw Mr. Lestrade still waiting, and so planted a quick kiss on Esca’s lips. “There. Hurry back.”

A breath of exasperation left Esca’s nostrils, “Marcus, you are not treating this seriously. Did I not ask you to adopt the fervor you used in our short engagement?”

Marcus made no reply but to open the paper with a smirk.

“Marcus,” anger set Esca’s jaw forward a little, burned in his grey eyes.

“I have kissed you,” Marcus said to him, lifting from his seat to peck his lips to Esca’s once again, “twice,” he dropped into his chair and returned to his paper. “That is typical husband behavior I should think.”

“You have been in a mood all morning,” Esca practically snarled, “I shall attribute it to the child and forget it as soon as it passes.”

“Attribute all you like, but I shall not cling to you and become weepy over the prospect of one hour,” Marcus snapped and then with a pointed look at Lestrade, “Your business waits for you, Esca. Go and leave me in peace.”

Without another word, Esca turned and strode away, shutting the door behind him.

Marcus snorted into the sudden silence of the room, lifting his chin and insisting to himself that he had done nothing he would not do again, despite this queer sense of having let Esca down. The thought of being so clingy over the matter of an hour’s privacy was absurd, even in the context of a happy union. Such co-dependence was surely unattractive.

And he did kiss him _twice_ , which was reasonably more than enough, considering a mere hour’s absence from the table.

True Esca did request that Marcus should pretend as before--as if the whole world turned on every touch, as if breath did not come if not from Esca’s lungs first… _Ha_ , thought Marcus now. Showing excessive affection was nothing but an excessive chore, nothing but a bit of weakness and folly. It was surely beneath a man of his standing. Of both of their standings. Esca was nobility, the Lord of Brigantes well into his thirties. He was not some love struck youth.

That sense of self-preservation which had fueled Marcus’ enthusiasm before the wedding was gone—no longer did he feel the proper motivation to _do or die_ \--and so his thoughts through his hour of solitude felt absolutely justified, and completely righteous. Which was why, when Esca returned and shut the parlor door behind him with a severe expression, Marcus was prepared for the argument to come.

“I did not expect _weepy_ from you, s’am,” Esca said at once, his voice low and hard. “Merely _playful_ and _insisting_! Surely you, while enjoying your _engaged friend,_ had such moments of unaccountable joy by not allowing a single thing to take you from his arms? Lovers build such fantasies, do they not? They pretend the world would never ask them to leave the bed--I thought to provoke such a sense of intimacy!”

“You would have me behave so over _tea biscuits_?”

“Do not mock me! I have _explained_ my desire to appear happily joined! We must seem to _hunger_ for one another!”

“To what end?” Marcus snapped, made somewhat bitter because no such scene ever transpired between himself and Liathan during the brief time of their intimacy, “Because I assure you, the world is satisfied with the knowledge of our marriage. They need no more than that! Why do _you_ require it?”

Esca stood there, shoulders drawn up but mouth snapped closed. When a moment passed thusly, Marcus realized Esca had no answer. The nobleman seemed to realize it at the same time and, with a few short words, excused himself from the room, the door shutting rather loudly behind him.

|||

_The sharp scent of burnt powder stung his nostrils, and Marcus tasted blood. Men ran right over him, shouting and firing their rifles. Pain made the world duplicate and dance circles around him, made him forget his own name, made him want his mother. He touched his leg, felt his own blood gushing from him like a hot spring of water, pulsing with his heartbeat._

_Strong arms grabbed him by the jacket and heaved him up—the prince, shouting to be heard over the militia—gripping the back of his neck, eyes in Marcus’s burning with fear and determination. “Marcus, you_ must _work with me! Lean on me, my friend, quickly!”_

_Disoriented, frightened that the blood ran so hot and thick down his leg--his useless, dragging leg--Marcus could only cling to his prince as the man led them through fallen bodies. Halfway to cover, Marcus’s vision failed him and when next he was aware, he was in safety, in a quiet room. His leg was bandaged tightly, his blood no longer spilling out into the earth and Liathan was there with a cold cloth and gentle hands, a smile with water standing in his eyes._

_“I thought God had marked you for keeping; I am profoundly happy to see he has returned you to us.”_

_When Marcus reached for his head, Liathan’s hand caught his and their fingers slid together, warm and dry and squeezing._

Marcus woke with a start from his second consecutive night of dreams featuring Liathan and sat up quickly—for a moment, just a moment—he thought he was still a soldier overseas with duties, with a prince at his side whom good men had witnessed risking his life to heave an unconscious Marcus onto his shoulders and carry him the remaining few yards to safety. But it was only a moment, hardly the time it took for Marcus to sit up, and then he was all too aware of reality. No war. No prince.

Breathing deeply, he let the new day in, this new life he had claimed for himself. None of it was his first choice, but it would have to do. Before he could relax back into his pillows to count his blessings (for surely there existed some) something heavy bubbled in his stomach. The nausea swelled up, and he had to scramble from the warm sheets to make the basin in time. After the contents of his stomach spattered into the water, Marcus dried his mouth and straightened slowly, stretching his aching back.

That his new life should begin with such misery disgusted him. He closed his eyes and prayed for the sickness to end. What he found himself praying for instead was the return of some modicum of the joy he had stumbled upon with his oldest friend….what was Liathan doing this morning? Was he on the prince’s mind, as the prince was so constantly on his? How many days would it take, how many dreams of the past must they both suffer before their connection was restored? Marcus did not think he could stand this forever. This empty charade of a life. He ached to see his best friend again, to hear his voice if nothing else, to touch that deadened part of himself that a new life of luxury and excess could not penetrate. 

Yes, that was it, Marcus thought desperately to the heavens. They need not do anything unsanctioned—only clap eyes on one another again with no harsh words, trade intimate smiles, perhaps a customary, albeit lingering, handshake?

He gripped the cold sides of the basin until the next swell of nausea was passed and with it the intense longing that made his fingers shake. He wiped his mouth, swearing softly under his breath. “Dammit, Liathan—“ _come back to me_. He swallowed the rest of the words. As much as he would like it, he could not simply twist his arm to make Liathan remember that the good far outweighed the bad, for marriage was a final act, and breaking such vows would do no one’s shaky reputations any favors.

Pleasant or not, Marcus reminded himself, this path was the easiest one, given by the grace of God and not to be squandered. This life might be empty, but it did not have to be unpleasant. A day passed faster with hobbies—Marcus meant to cultivate some of his own. This very thing had been his uncle’s good advice just after his discharge from the militia, advice ignored in favor of reminiscing the old days with Liathan until….

Well, that sort of hobby might have passed for a philandering cad with no need of marriage vows, but Marcus was a changed man….quite literally. When his gaze fell on the mirror propped over the shaving kit, Marcus turned to it and curiously lifted the hem of his nightshirt to his chest to examine his abdomen.

Turning this way and that, he observed his stomach, divided into even, firm planes by abdominal muscles. It did not seem to be yet distended. Or, perhaps it was… just a little…

His penis hung placid in its nest of dark hair as if a lifetime of routine morning arousals never happened. Memory of the mortification during his wedding night, unable to perform, to even harden a little bit, caused Marcus to idly move a fingertip up and down his length.

Stirring.

Stirring.

Nothing.

Disgusted, Marcus threw down his shirt, cursing pregnancy, and wondered what else he could expect it to rob from him. His figure, obviously, would be the next to go. And then, no doubt, once the child is born he will lose all peace of mind to constant worry for the child’s well-being, his future, his happiness, how others would receive him… and what if it was a girl? The worry would increase tenfold, and for good reason. 

The fairest sex was so vulnerable. A woman, if she was not married, was useless. And if she did not marry well, then she was miserable. And until she was married, she was prey for any cad in England… And what if she married well, and was happy for a time, but she and her children ended up like Marcus and his mother?

Suddenly, Marcus needed Harriet’s company, needed to discuss parenthood with her, and longed for a reassurance from her that all would be well.

With newfound energy, Marcus let himself into the master bedroom. In the warming morning sunlight that filled the room, he could see only part of Esca’s face for the way the man slept on his front, his arms folded beneath him as if holding a secret close to his heart, the rest of him buried in excessive blankets and pillows.

A part of Marcus was hesitant to risk disturbing him--for ever since that disagreement over tea yesterday they had hardly said a word to one another. Tensions, stubborn character, and wounded pride kept either of them from attempting to move beyond the matter. Retreating to their separate beds that night, Esca had not even offered his kind, “good night, Marcus,” or even looked at him. 

Considerately quiet, Marcus settled at the writing desk with as little noise as possible and began to compose a letter home. He was partway through the update before he realized that nothing of what he had written was safe on paper—letters went astray, after all, even ones intended for a destination so close.

It would not do for the courier boy to take a peek upon his meddlesome big sister’s request and thusly read all about how the prince of England sired an illegitimate child by the Fortunate Lord of Brigantes and how in an unforeseen turn of events, the young Lord Cunoval knew the whole of it yet kept the fortunate on as a celibate spouse.

Trashing the first attempt, Marcus tried again and informed his family that the marriage was a happy one and that he would be quite comfortable at Brigantes Abbey. He also invited them to come up to the house and stay whenever they wished, knowing that neither would accept the invitation until the honeymoon period was over.

“You are much absorbed in your letter.”

It was Esca, speaking from the bed. Marcus gave a great start and blinked around at his husband who looked quite comfortable. Esca was sitting up, bronze hair uncombed and hanging down his forehead as well as sticking up over one ear. Marcus looked around at the clock, alarmed by the hour. He had not but a few minutes to remake the valet’s bed before the servants started poking about.

Usually, it was Esca rousing him from slumber and ordering him into the bed to play like he had spent the night there for when the breakfast tray arrived. This had been the routine for every night and every morning of the honeymoon thus far.

“Forgive me,” Esca grinned, “I did not wish to disturb you—for you were kind enough not to disturb me when you entered. To whom are you writing?”

“You sleep soundly enough it was no chore.” Marcus answered, folding up and sealing his letter. He pressed the Cunoval crest—a hound, spears, and horses--into the blue wax and then quickly remade the bed before shutting up the valet’s room as if it remained untouched, “I found myself awake and decided to assure my mother and my uncle that I am happy.”

Esca stared. Marcus, now aware of the chill around his legs, awkwardly got up and climbed into the warm bed.

“Are you?” Esca asked flatly.

“I am blessed,” Marcus replied with a practiced smile, false cheeriness. It would have been convincing if Esca had inquired after his blessings and not his happiness. Two things that Marcus had learned of late were not always related. Some blessings, like unplanned pregnancy or finding a refuge from scorn, were not at all joyous gifts.

Esca watched him settling into the covers and Marcus bit his tongue against snapping at the gentleman to stop his infernal staring.

“Your mother and uncle know of your child?”

“Of course they do.”

Marcus curled under the blankets, his back to his husband as the man asked, “Do they know the father?”

“No—although they might have guessed,” Marcus sighed and he craned his head back to look at Esca with a tight grin, “You remain the only confidence outside the gentleman who has been trusted with the heritage of this child.”

Esca looked tired and rubbed his face with both hands. “Shall I ring for breakfast?”

“Yes, let’s get it over with.”

Breakfast was in the usual amiable silence, one on each side of the bed, the tray between them as they ate. When Esca broke the silence, his voice was pensive, “I must confess that I am now tied in knots over what your family must think of me. They see me as a fool easily taken in.”

“They see you as a god-send. My letter is full of the lies we peddle about the house daily. I will have them believe what they want to hear; that I have found a good father for my child who will love me and--not use me…” The words tripped out of his mouth as he recalled Esca making that proclamation in this very bed not two weeks ago. How queer a feeling, finding one’s lie to be the absolute truth after all.

Esca stared again. Then he blinked and tucked himself in to rest pensively and digest. “You have done well, to ensnare a bankrupt nobleman rather than a gambling drunk.”

“Social climbing has never been in my agenda. Had I the choice, I would have chosen to be wed to someone of less standing in Society, so that I may live unnoticed, Your Lordship.”

“I understand your meaning completely. What I wouldn’t give to live the life I would have had, if Father had not inherited from our great uncle.” With a great pull of breath Esca’s pensive mood was gone, and he suddenly continued with, “May we discuss the events at tea yesterday?”

“I was overtired from a poor night’s sleep,” Marcus replied readily, having fallen to sleep thinking over his actions and regretting them, “and so mocked you when my pride was wounded by the implication that, as a fruitful man, I am expected to behave as if dependent upon you every moment of the day. I apologize only for my lack of civility. However, I do continue to refuse clinging behavior. I never have been the type.”

Nodding, Esca cut in, “I was being an imbecile. You were right; we are married, and that fact alone will secure confidence that we have consummated the match, but I often forget as much. I--I feel the need to overcompensate, you see, for the gulf that I know lies between us.”

“I do believe overcompensating is all I did in our courtship.” Marcus admitted, “Such a gulf is dangerous--you saw how fiercely I fought to close it once and for all on our wedding night…. for both our sakes….” With his blood thickening at the delectable memory of wrestling with Esca, he shifted in the over warm-bed and threw back the heavier quilt for air. What was to be found under his thin nightshirt came as a surprise to the both of them. What had before been unresponsive had become quite proud.

“Marcus…” Esca’s voice was soft with surprise, cheeks coloring darkly. Breathless with embarrassment as well as thrilling sensation, Marcus arched his back a little involuntarily and then attempted to be modest. He turned to his side, curling his legs, hiding his lap with a nervous laugh. “I…told you it was not a permanent ailment.”

His blood sang through his veins, and he felt like jumping, shouting with triumph. He had never felt stronger, more alive. He wanted to take himself in hand and bring himself to swift completion just for the pleasure of seeing it done. 

Of course he did no such thing. He bit his lip and spied Esca’s pink skin, his quickened breath. All at once, Marcus remembered Esca’s animalistic kisses and his hidden strength.

Marcus rolled closer to his husband.

Gulping, the nobleman blinked slowly. “No,” his voice was still soft, but his eyes had hardened. “We mustn’t.”

Undaunted by this gentle refusal, Marcus rolled onto his stomach, secretly thrilling at the pressure against his thickened manhood. He restrained from shifting for a little friction as well--it would be far too obscene and likely to scare Esca away.

“Pray tell one reason we should not?” Marcus asked amiably, intent on selling this possibility. He did not jump up to stand like he wished to do as he made his point bluntly, “Look at me, I am able and should very much like to close the gulf we were speaking of.”

Smiling, but now with a firmer voice to match his resolved eyes, Esca shook his head like a schoolmaster correcting an idealistic pupil, “That is impossible.”

“I assure you it is no longer impossible,” Marcus said with a happy laugh. It brought the shortest laugh out of Esca, but the nobleman was steadfast. 

“It is not _me_ you desire, Marcus. You would have anyone right now.”

“Maybe, but no one else is here but you.”

“ _He_ is in your heart, and he will be in your mind, _I_ just the instrument… Will you think of my feelings?” Marcus was instantly shamed into sobriety. Esca’s eyes sparked with triumph and he spoke firmly and resolutely,

“I will not allow it—I… could, however, give you privacy if you need it.”

Marcus joined the laughter that had broken Esca’s kind offer, and shook his head, already feeling his heated flesh dissipating against the hard press of mattress. “No, you are right. I must not toy with your heart for my own selfish end. Forgive me; this change has confused my thoughts. Our marriage on paper, and our illusion before our family, does not excuse such a betrayal of my love for the prince.”

Esca was silent for a long stretch, and then his lips smacked, “I am glad you have begun to see the matter in its true light.”

“You are a good man, Cunoval. It is for the best that at least one of us remains stoic and immovable in the path of my reckless behavior.”

Blushing, Esca nodded with a smirk hooked in the corner of his mouth, “A part of me greatly disagrees with you, s’am,” at this he motioned to his own lap, and Marcus nearly fell into a fit of giggles but saved himself while Esca got up from the bed and disappeared behind his changing screen, “but I sincerely thank you for the acknowledgement to my honor.”

Marcus shifted about awkwardly in the bed, his lap heavy and hot. Words grew on the tip of his tongue, wild thoughts to somehow convince Esca to stay and finish what their wedding night had started. But soon enough, Esca stepped from behind the screen fully dressed with a hot look in his eyes and a half-bashful, half-humored expression. He winked, “I shall leave you to your morning exercises, Marcus.”

With a guffaw, Marcus threw a pillow, but the door shut before it hit its laughing target.

|||

Marcus received heavy letters filled with relief and joy and prayers and questions from his two family members. They had evidently not taken into account the risk of mailing such secrets. That or they considered the risk minor in the face of the killing stress not knowing the truth kept them in. With a snort, Marcus surmised that this must have been the case entirely. He knew too well what poor Uncle must be living with as Mother fretted.

He answered their questions with more fabrications. These little white lies did more to widen the gulf between himself and his only family, but it was necessary for their happiness. Marcus would rather become an island, alone and cold, than watch his shared misery slowly sink the lives of the ones he loved. 

He did not write to Liathan, unable to spell out a single white lie to him. Instead, he prayed that Liathan was making an honest attempt at happiness….

For the next week, he and Esca filled their days with walks in the garden during the warmest parts of the day, or hours spent quietly reading in bed, or long rides through the hills. On one such outdoor excursion, Esca one day lingered a great deal in a meadow by the stream.

Upon Marcus’ irritated inquiry as to why they should not return to the house, the nobleman answered in a rush,

“They packed us _this_!” He motioned to a basket on his saddle. In it, Marcus found blankets, a picnic of delicious snacks and... Dear god, a jar of oil. 

For intercourse.

Outside.

In nature.

Grass and bugs and stark bright sunlight to illuminate everything for everyone and God to see.

Violently red, with trousers significantly tighter, Marcus put it back in the bottom of the basket under the blankets and cleared his throat, wondering at why Esca’s servants would pack such things as if _expecting_...

Esca was sitting on the ground, leaning on the wide trunk of a grandfather willow tree. Eagle dipped her huge head and sniffed his hair and nibbled at him, and he idly pushed her away, long passed being amused by his old horse’s attentions. 

Marcus’s horse had wondered down to the water’s edge at the stream and drank noisily. It was difficult to see Appleseed as the grass surrounding him and the willow tree was nearly taller than his saddle.

“It is something of a family legend,” Esca broke the silence.

“What is?”

“This tree, this meadow... My brothers and I were conceived here. All three of us.”

“You don’t say?” Marcus laughed. Looking around, he noted how the willow limbs and the grass reached each other, blocking all sight of the outside world as was the case from the outside looking in as well. Indeed, he had been most pleased to linger here at first, as it delivered a privacy matched only by the bedroom, where they were free to be honest. And just like the bedroom, Marcus had grown unbearably bored and needed to break out. Here, he hadn’t even the luxury of a bed in which to curl up. He had resisted sitting on the ground thus far, fearing the wet grass would stain his new riding breeches, which Esca had picked out for him as well. (Marcus had learned to trust Esca’s impeccable taste and would never object to the man dressing him.)

“After my mother died, my father started talking about her, to keep her alive. As his mind started to go, he began revealing things exceedingly private in nature. Among them his evidence that this place is _lucky_ as he describes it…” Esca snorted, shook his head. “Now he has the whole county considering this tree the Heir tree.”

The silence that fell was only filled with the crunch of the grass that Eagle ate and the distant lapping sounds of the second horse slurping from the stream. Esca idly ripped up and tied together a knot of grass and he restlessly threw it into the tall weeds around them, sighing,

“It won’t be long now before we can announce your condition. Everyone will be happy to blame this place. It is perhaps a silly superstition but in our case useful.”

“Oh,” was all Marcus could think to say. Esca chuckled.

“I spent a lot of time here with someone once. That’s where the rumors of my conquests originate.”

“Oh?” Marcus asked, deeply intrigued.

“Nothing improper was going on,” Esca insisted at once, “But when I was younger, my dearest friend was a servant girl who grew up in Brigantes Abbey with me. We used to run all over these hills playing all kinds of games. 

“Climbing this tree was one of them. No one knew then how special it was to my parents, mind you, but it is still a rather improper place for a young maid and an heir of the house to spend their time without a chaperon… It was allowed to go on simply because no one thought to question our relationship; everyone assumed I would be fruitful... Then I was fifteen and still not blossomed and she was fifteen and turned down a perfectly good marriage proposal from a local farmer and all at once everyone suspected us of...” he shrugged, waved a hand around the whole area.

“What happened?” Marcus asked.

“We were forced to give up our friendship and she was put out of the house. I tried to refuse to do any such thing, but she insisted on going. She said it wasn’t right, if I was not going to marry her.” His voice was soft and sad, eyes far away.

Suddenly Marcus thought he understood how it was that Esca could prefer the company of horses; horses would never decide a friendship was dispensable.

“The real scandal of it all of course is that shortly after that, my brothers and mother died and I brought her back to working in the house to help us through it... and she’s still here to this day. She fixed my hand up for me the morning after the wedding.”

“Oh,” Marcus said, eyes widening as he connected her to the head housemaid in their marital bed.

“Cottia is like a sister to me, Marcus,” he reassured. Marcus nodded and distracted himself by reaching up to pat the big nose of Eagle, who had wondered over to him. Upon his attentions, she stepped even closer, huge head looming into his personal space and blunt nose bumping his, a hot rush of grassy breath forcing his eyes closed.

Esca laughed and so did Marcus as Eagle commenced to sniffing through Marcus’ pockets.

“Oh, here, you hopeless beggar!” Esca cried, digging an apple from the basket. He tossed it to Marcus who prided himself silently when he caught it one handed. He offered it to the horse and did not notice until he saw the reflection in Eagle’s big glassy eye that of Esca spreading the blanket out on the ground.

“Er... what are you doing?”

Esca turned, smirked at him and then flopped down, reached for the basket, “I’m having a picnic.”

Marcus could only stare and Esca chuckled, “the blanket must return home with bits of grass stuck to it or they’ll know it stayed in the basket.”

“You do think of everything don’t you? Your commitment to this fabrication is truly astounding.”

“It is a matter of my pride,” he pulled out the oil and frowned at it.

“For... er...” Marcus found himself at a loss as to how to put it delicately.

“I know what it’s for,” Esca replied smoothly, “I’m wondering the likelihood of it getting on the blanket?”

Oh.

Marcus strolled the perimeter of the green globe, trailing a hand in the wall of soft grass, and it all tumbled out of his mouth in a fall of laughter before he thought better about it, “I would concern myself more with other things getting on the blanket, Cunoval.”

Esca blinked and then promptly went red in the ears. Marcus could not help the superior look that spread his lips in a wicked smile. Esca narrowed his eyes and reached to pull his shirt hem from his trousers, “Well, then, s’am, if you’ll kindly look away for a moment...”

Marcus gave a start and cry that was halfway between “Pardon me?” and an expletive and then Esca laughed loudly in a way similar to his father, but the sound was not wheezy for the younger Cunoval had a loud strong instrument of a voice and his laughter seemed to fill up the whole of the meadow. The horses lifted their heads, ears pricking forward.

“I thought you were truly going to—“ Marcus fell to his knees and then his rear, laughing too much to care now of preserving his clean clothes. As the joke occurred to him a second time, his fit of laughter intensified, and he threw himself flat on the ground, covered his tearing eyes with the crook of his arm, his ribs in agony. “Oh, good heavens...” he cackled, and it felt so good he did not want to stop.

Esca’s laughter had shifted from self-amusement to entertainment from watching someone Marcus’ size writhe on the ground in such a fit. Marcus was on his back, clutching his ribs, eyes squeezed shut, laughter pushing up and up and up in never ending swells.

“Your face is red, Marcus! Breathe!”

“I cannot!” he said, even as he managed to draw a proper breath that cut his laughter back into something manageable. Aftershocks continued to shake his shoulders and a smile could not be broken on his face. He sat up and adjusted his clothing, brushed away bits of grass.

“I apologize,” Marcus mumbled, lips twitching. Esca was bright and beaming, his eyes roving over Marcus as they did in the days before the wedding, full of wonder and desire. The unexpected return of such a look unearthed bashfulness in Marcus so that he could not meet Esca’s eye. “The emotion got away from me. My changes fling moods into extremity, and--“

“Do not apologize,” Esca cut in, “I believe I have never brought such laughter to anyone before. It’s delightful, and it inflates my pride to have moved you so. Moreover, you are handsome when you smile this way, Marcus, I insist you allow the expression more often.”

“Thank you, Cunoval” truly flattered, Marcus bowed his head, “I shall bear that in mind.”

“Good. And no more of this Cunoval nonsense,” Esca declared as a second thought. “If we are joined in body and spirit, then I am to you but _your Esca_ , or all manner of the usual little endearments.”

Marcus huffed at this in pure defiance, not in the least taking to the idea of being forced to give affection where it did not lie, but then--quaking under that unashamed _stare_ \--he surrendered and smirked, “Yes, dear.”

Esca’s face slackened in surprise, for good reason; Esca hadn’t expected anything more from Marcus than the use of his name--and Marcus, wanting to make sure he did not allow Esca to deceive himself as Marcus had with Liathan’s thoughtless words, explained, “Please do not think into it; it is what my uncle calls my mother when he’s tired of her voice, therefore the endearment can never hold the proper connotation for me; but others need not know that.”

Esca laughed instead of gaining offense, “Then I shall happily be dear to you, Marcus.” He frowned in thought and then spoke up yet again. “My, it is far too easy to build this fiction is it not? I’m half inclined to believe God wants our charade to happen.”


	7. The Lessons One Might Have Skipped

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some more familiar faces in this one. Kinda wanted to keep it either a full cast of fictional characters, or a full cast of real actors, but ah well. It's a little wishy-washy on that front, but hopefully entertaining :)

As the last few days of autumn carried on and the honeymoon drew to a close, Marcus began to find his stride in the new rhythm of his life. The long stretches of un-expecting silences, the occasional brief bursts of laughter, the odd moment of bewildered embarrassment, the Old Man’s shouted stories over a game of chess in the evenings, and Esca’s unrelenting stare throughout: every part of it settled in around Marcus, who no longer fought the strange current of this house but learned to let it carry him through the day.

He noted the sudden arrival of the tell-tale bulge of his stomach. His first thought was not of the baby but of food; his appetite had transformed into something nearly insatiable and once or twice, he finished two whole helpings of the main course before anyone else at the table had even finished their first. His shirts, thankfully, concealed the ever so gentle curve of his muscled abdomen, but he was all too aware that soon enough the news would spread that he was expecting. _They_ were expecting.

The numbness of losing Liathan’s constant company seemed to at last ebb from its unrelenting presence in Marcus’ heart, becoming instead a sharp ache that exploded in his chest at unexpected turns, inevitably followed by the sinking weight of shame and regret. While Marcus could be content enough one moment, any memory of his former life abruptly left him feeling cross and alone, even if he was in a room filled by his husband, the nurse, and the old man with genial conversation covering all manner of topics.

When the period of honeymooning ended, the last days of a semblance of warmth outside drew to a close and the full downstairs staff was hired. Lord Esca resumed his work, which kept him much out of the house. He spent the whole of each day dashing around the estate as he oversaw various aspects of repairing the property with his new income.

The abrupt change in Marcus’ daily schedule came as something of a shock to him. He had held the notion that married life would forever be as he had known it thus far. Alas, he and Esca no longer wandered about hand in hand, nor shut themselves up together in a room under blushing pretenses.

When they met in the dining room for dinner and stilted conversation (with two and three helpings of everything on Marcus’ part while Esca watched on with the occasional secret smile) Marcus bent at the waist so that Esca could kiss his cheek when they parted for the night; the same thing happened at the top of the stairs before they turned for their separate rooms. Esca no longer insisted on pretending at any more than that.

After the honeymoon, the first time newly married pair made an honest attempt of conversation in the middle of the day was filled with long, awkward lulls, as it became starkly plain to both of them that--aside from provoking laughter by making unexpected remarks regarding the sex they were not having--they had nothing to share, no other topic of interest in common.

And so it happened that the most Marcus saw of Esca was when he burst in and out of the house, striding about with the freshness of outdoors hanging on him, granite eyes barely resting on Marcus for any longer than it took to say, “My dear, I’ll be in ----shire on business, do not expect me for tea.”

Marcus found his days unexpectedly free to do with as he wished.

As the Fortunate Lord of the county, and of a character to loathe the very idea of sitting alone with an old man and a nurse in that great big empty house, Marcus plunged into Society. While he’d been acclimating to married life, his mother had formed a standing with the notable members of the village, and so he sent a note to his uncle’s house.

Within the hour, his mother’s carriage was outside.

Harriet stepped into the parlor, a pearl day gown with an extravagantly-scarfed hat. She met him with open arms, looking happier than Marcus had seen her in years. Decades even. Brown eyes beamed up at him as she closed her lace-gloved fingers over his wrists. “Marcus, my heart, how are you?”

He bowed slightly to kiss both her cheeks. “Mother, I have missed you.”

“Me? Good heavens,” she giggled, suddenly made nervous by Marcus’ unusual behavior. In truth, he had never invited her to spend the day with him without his uncle as a buffer, but that would be corrected in due course. He smiled, but a familiar look of concern covered her face, and she put a hand right on the bulge he was concealing. “How you have changed already. Let me look at you…your color, it worries me.”

“I am well, Mother,” he assured, gently batting her hand from his secret bump, “Only anxious to have occupation to pass the time, as ever. What should I do to present myself to Society? Should I host a dinner, or perhaps a ball?”

She smiled warmly, patted his cheek. “One thing at a time, my heart. First, we must make the proper adjustments. Let’s look at the house.”

Marcus offered his arm as he used to do in uniform, and they walked from room to room. Her reactions were far from what Marcus’ had been when he’d first seen the private sectors of the house.

“My, my, have you work ahead of you,” she laughed a little shrilly, the very edges of hysterics.

“Do I?” Marcus was surprised and examined the grand rooms with fresh eyes, spirit dropping dangerously low. He had hoped to fill the house with potential friends as soon as the coming week.

“Yes, of course.” She laughed again, “These rooms are terribly out of fashion and _shabby_ ,” she whispered the word as if it was filthy. Marcus gritted his teeth, but reluctantly admitted, “Yes, I do suppose the fabric is faded a bit...I had not noticed….”

“You must update it immediately before any parties of great importance.”

“Update it to what, Mother? Has the execution of curtains greatly changed at all?”

She seemed incredibly saddened. “Do you remember nothing of what I taught you?”

He did his best not to snap his response, so kept his teeth together. “I recall not one lesson of housekeeping.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “As I recall you would sit still for none of it. Always off to please your father, and then your uncle, of course, did nothing to break you of the habit. The pair of them always let you do exactly as you wished.”

Marcus remained silent, mired temporarily in a memory far-older than the ones he dwelt on lately. The faded occurrence of puberty felt like a dream to him now, or more accurately a nightmare. The event had been one brief upheaval and then written off, never spoken of again but for twice: the day he had enlisted, shouting that he would do with his life what he wished gender-be-damned, and then again the unhappy morning he had announced his unexpected condition.

His mother’s voice broke into his unhappy thoughts, revealing her own trip into the past. “I do suppose what your father did to us set us down a course we could never have imagined… A more attentive mother than I could have better prepared you for this, Marcus. I am ashamed to look back and see how wildly I let you run about all these years and you my fortune.”

Something heavy turned over in his throat, and he shook his head, “Please, let us not place blame on anyone. Until this Change, I have never had the smallest inclination to behave as anything but a man.”

His attempt at comfort visibly upset her more. Eyes shining with sudden tears, she whispered, “How I have worried about that, my heart. It speaks to me as nothing a truly satisfied soul would do.”

“Mother…” he knew not what to say.

She blinked the wetness out of her eyes and turned away. She focused on the sofa, and emotions shifted, shuffled like a deck of cards until the tender wounds were neatly hidden like the ace of spades.

“Oh, this fabric,” she said, touching the red patterned furniture. Marcus was glad to put the past to rest. His mother ran a hand across the cushions of the chairs. “What a peculiar but beautiful choice….Do you know who it was that ordered this? I should like to know from where it was purchased.”

“No, I do not,” Marcus said, weary of this false amiability. To suffer it was worse than the fiction of his marriage. “I shall ask Esca.”

“Yes, do,” she said, smoothing her skirts and glancing about. “Where will you serve tea today?”

“The garden. This way, Mother.”

|||

Once in the warm sunshine of a dying season, and seated comfortably at the table, Marcus felt better than he had in days, and he knew why. The stuffiness and heat of the interior rooms had been pressing in on his skull in a most relentless headache. He endeavored to remember to take in the fresh air every day while the weather held.

“And your husband’s attentions?” Harriet asked delicately over her tea cup.

Not even his uncle had asked after such things; leaving all questions unasked to save blushes. It was just like Capt. Aquila to assume the best and carry on with light conversation in the meantime. Harriet, however, had always needed reassurances against her various certainties that everything out of sight was going to rot. “Has he been kind?”

“A man as small as himself against one of my build would hardly dare to be otherwise,” Marcus replied. Harriet gave him a look to reprimand his improper response and the ex-soldier then drew a breath and considered answering with the truth. _He has not touched me since discovering my dishonor yet keeps the secret for me_.

It would be a relief to finally be able to speak of the matter with someone.

But if she were told, Harriet would never rest at ease again with the knowledge that the entire honeymoon had been a farce; that the marriage was still unconsummated and thus could be easily broken. So Marcus chose his words carefully yet truthfully.

“Esca has been… surprising…” Marcus admitted in a little voice, a little smile, unable to look up from the table cloth. He smoothed a hand over the pearl buttons of today’s vest, imagining the life growing inside of him. “We will be comfortable here.”

Harriet beamed warmly and held his hand. “I am so pleased to hear it….and to think how happy all shall be to learn of an heir to come! He has confessed to wanting a child very quickly?”

“Yes,” Marcus choked. “I do believe he will be overjoyed at the news.”

“Marcus, you have done so very well. I thank God for this stroke of luck every morning and every night.”

Marcus pasted a smile on his face, shifting, and refreshing their cups. To change the subject, he addressed the absence of the old man. “I am sorry you could not meet Lord Cunoval today. His is a most entertaining spirit, I quite like him.”

“Where is he this morning?”

“Bedridden. It is not a good day for him, regrettably. Esca will be straight up to his bedside when he returns to the house. He is the picture of a devoted son.”

She smiled, charmed. “Then I shall meet them both another time. Neither has shown offence at my nervous condition keeping us from meeting before now?”

“No.” Marcus assured. “To be honest, the old man doesn’t remember anyone out of sight, and Esca understands better than most the unpredictability of parental ailments. His own mother had a very delicate constitution as well, so I am told.”

“I fear I have put it off much too long. They must think me terribly indifferent to them. But I simply could not risk my nerves in the face of such delicate schemes! Marcus, how did you do it for so many years?”

He exhaled slowly as he constructed his answer. “It isn’t a matter of one grand lie to be upheld like the world upon Atlas’ shoulders, though it may seem that way from the outside. In reality, it is a matter of one day at a time, one conversation at a time. If each choice is made with the proper deliberations, than the façade holds itself up…but, of course, one moment of weakness will send the whole thing crashing down…”

“You will not be weak again, will you Marcus? If all of this were to crash down around our ears…what would we do then?”

“Fear not, Mother. Now known as a fortunate, I will never again be tested beyond my limits.”

“That is not entirely true. If you intend to lead local Society, then you have a very weary battle ahead of you.”

He recalled the tedious events he had attended during the engagement, and the feeling of inferiority he had felt in the presence of the truly accomplished members of the parties. “Where must I begin?”

“As you now own the grandest house in the county, my dear heart, I would focus my attention there.”

Marcus tried to be enthusiastic at the idea of redecorating, but he’d expected his mother to help him surround himself with people and potential friends more quickly than this. She must have read the disappointment in his expression for she sighed and stopped in the middle of her praise for damask wallpaper. “But this level of redecorating will take some time and you must enter into local Society in the meantime. Come by for tea with some friends of mine, and we will go from there.”

“Tea, yes. What day?”

Harriet chortled and patted his hand, “Patience, my heart. First, I should like to have met my son in law. Our family dinner will be first. Now, what did you have in mind for the main course?”

|||

Marcus had never worked this hard to keep conversation moving.

His first dinner party--an intimate gathering of family only--had nearly drawn to a close and Harriet still had yet to find common ground with her son-in-law. Lord Esca sat quietly at one end of the table across from his father and the nurse at the other, Marcus and his family in between. Uncle and the old man had done all the talking, Harriet and Marcus chiming in when they could, and Esca had stayed quiet, barely uttering a word through three courses.

Marcus gritted his teeth and did not eat, could not for his annoyance. Tonight was about _Esca_ , as an adoption into Marcus’ family, yet he would not make a single effort to that kindness.

 _What on Earth was I thinking?_ Marcus riled at himself. _I should never have admitted that Mother and Uncle know of the scandal._ Had he told one more little white lie— _No, Lord Esca, the secret is safe between us_ —then he could have saved himself this endless embarrassment tonight. Capt. and Mrs. Aquila would be treated as anyone else in Esca’s eyes; people to whom it was most important to appear blissfully entwined.

Marcus would have felt shy to spin such an illusion in front of them, but the attentions (however fake) would have been better than this cold detachment, heartless indifference, rude behavior that undermined every assurance Marcus had left them with thus far.

“Lord Esca,” Uncle Aquila called down the table. “Would you care to accompany me on my shoot tomorrow? I’ve been out once already and found it the most fun in ages.”

The nobleman took his time chewing and swallowing his food before answering, “I do not care for shooting.”

Marcus gave his uncle an apologetic look. He knew Uncle’s favorite thing about shooting was the friendly atmosphere of competition between the men. He could not have found his solo venture that enjoyable, and was visibly disappointed by the rejection.

“I will go with you sometime, Uncle.”

“Oh, how splendid,” Uncle said. Harriet, aflutter, grabbed Marcus’ hand and said somewhat hastily, “However will you find the time to go stalking off after animals when you have obligations in the house, my heart?”

“Yes, Mother, I didn’t mean right away,” he said pointedly. “Only that I should like to shoot at least once this season. I have not overlooked my chores.”

“Chores?” Esca asked with significance, knowing full well that in this context Marcus meant _pregnancy_. Marcus’ nostrils flared and he gave his husband a mildly threatening look that he hoped said _they do not know you know. Say_ nothing _about the child!_

“Yes, my dear,” he said aloud, “The rooms are in great disrepair.” With as much happy interest as he could fake, the ex-soldier went in on his plans for updating the house.

Predictably, Marcus felt the nobleman’s attention waver and then slip away entirely as he ate. Marcus continued talking, feeling like an imbecile, until his mother came to his rescue.

“Lord Esca,” she said to him importantly. Esca lifted dark eyes from his plate. “I’ve asked my fortunate son to make inquiries but it seems he has forgotten. I am very much interested in the decorations in the red room. Might I know who takes credit for it?”

Esca frowned with a sigh and said, “I haven’t the slightest. Father!’ shouting down the table, “Did my mother do the red room?”

“HAVEN’T THE SLIGHTEST MY BOY. WHY? IS THE TWINK REDECORATING?”

Harriet gasped. Esca stopped eating, embarrassed, and did not meet his mother-in-law’s eye. Marcus cleared his throat. The nurse looked blankly on like a soldier at attention, and Uncle reached over and patted his sister in law’s hand as if asking the forgiveness of the old man who was still shouting on with his permission for the whole house to be reworked, having not noticed the offense he caused.

Once the guests were gone—Harriet still beside herself with shock and promising that she could never again dine with such a foul mouthed old man—Marcus angrily caught Esca’s elbow outside of his room. “You could not feign an ounce of amiability for my parents?”

A look of shame flickered across Esca’s angry expression, and he looked tired again. “Marcus, please—that was my best attempt. I have never felt like a greater fool in my life; everything I said they compared to the prince, who surely loved shooting and gambling and trips to ----shire as they do.”

“I am sorry, Cunoval, but your coolness has damaged all my assurances. I fear they must think you an unfeeling husband now.”

“Unfeeling and idiotic—gods, what they must think of me,” Esca closed his eyes and dropped his chin, and Marcus realized with great alarm that the nobleman was in the midst of a self-esteem crisis. He scrambled for something to say.

“I assure you, my mother does not like the prince better than her son in law. She has met Liathan only once—as you can imagine entertaining royalty has her at her wits end--but having listened to my stories about him for years before hand, she had already formed her judgment and behaved cordially out of respect for her queen, but I assure you, she managed to get her true opinion across nonetheless. Believe me, if my mother disliked you, you would know it.”

The corners of Esca’s bowing mouth lifted slightly, and Marcus dared to hope that his attempt at comforting had worked. He gave the shorter man an awkward thump to the bicep. “Do not be so hard on yourself, Cunoval. I will think of a way to smooth the damage done tonight and all will be well.”

“Is there not something you can say to them?” Esca asked, looking pained that any damage had occurred at his fault, “Can you not tell them that I—well, it is true, Marcus. You do not know me that well, but I adjust to new people very slowly. Extend my deepest apologies; inform them that I simply could not relax or speak openly, but one day I shall, with time.”

Marcus smiled. “I shall tell them so, and that I have seen it happen already. Sometimes I feel as if I am only just beginning to meet the real Esca Cunoval underneath your mean countenance.”

At mention of his attitude, Esca’s eyebrows swooped low and his chin moved forward. “What mean countenance?”

Marcus snorted and turned for his own bed room. “Good night, my dear.”

|||

In the typical fashion of Marcus’ mother, Harriet Aquila had made a very wide circle of acquaintances and so, after the embarrassment of the last dinner Marcus could count on sharing with both his mother and his shy husband, Marcus was rarely without an appointment. In fact, for the next two weeks, he was kept almost as busy as the young lord.

Marcus enjoyed the walk down to his uncle’s townhouse, a winding path down the hill, through some trees and then along a lane parallel to a small brook, and so he never ordered the carriage or a horse. He took to making the quaint little journey every day, taking full advantage of his mother’s open invitation to visit her. The strangeness of Harriet’s sudden attention had yet to wane on Marcus. Never had he realized he lacked his own mother’s approval until arriving here, away from the prince, and into the life she would have had him build at the age of eighteen. He had nearly forgotten that she was capable of more than fretting. It had been the most pleasant shock to learn that within her own circles, Harriet Aquila was a leader, elegant and clever, too. Marcus attended her gatherings with the beginning twinges of pride to be called her son.

But these visits, each in their turn, were nothing short of disastrous.

There were always at least two or three women dropping in on Harriet while Marcus sat with her, to share tea, or sew for a while and trade the latest gossip. And it never failed, from the moment these women stepped into the room until the snap of the door behind their exit, that Harriet did nothing but shoot Marcus wild panicked looks when his comments proved to be too manly and coarse for the present company.

Harriet frequently caught his eye as the others were bent over their stitching and jumped her shoulders. By this Marcus came to understand that he was sitting with his shoulders too broadly displayed, and did his best to rectify the posture only for his mother to lean in under the illusion of refreshing his tea to hiss that he was slouching horrendously.

When talk turned to sewing or music or painting or any number of such accomplishments, Marcus had to explain again and again how the militia had kept him too busy these past fifteen years to hone any skill beyond that with a rifle. Sometimes, this comment would thrill the young ladies into breathless wonder, to which Marcus’ pride swelled—until the moment he caught his mother’s feverish eye and realized how uncomfortable others in the room had become.

One of the most frequent to join Marcus and his mother for the day was the young and radiant Miss Elizabeth Swan who had evidently taken it upon herself to be his mother’s little pet. Marcus hated her instantly. She put on nice enough airs and was considered a beauty with her finely sculpted face and full bosom above a narrowly squeezed waist. (Marcus had learned years ago to notice such women, for it had been expected of him to do so.)

But Miss Swan’s big flashy smile was empty when she aimed it at him. He saw Swan eye him analytically and then try not to smirk, as if he was the most absurd of all the creatures she had ever encountered. He managed decorum well enough in Miss Swan’s company until the fatal day she joined her condescending smirk with a comment towards Harriet about her absent husband, Marcus’s father.

“I’m sure his business in China was the direct reason behind your wealth, Mrs. Aquila,” she said too sweetly, “you must have been very proud to have such a husband.”

“Our wealth is from the generosity of my uncle, Miss Swan,” Marcus said to her with dry venom, “My father was not in China on business. As you and all of England are well aware, he was an independently wealthy soldier who was cut off from the family and died in poverty.”

Before Miss Swan could reply, Harriet changed the subject by shoving needlepoint into their hands, “Help me finish cross stitching the additions to my family tree, will you, Eliza? And you, too, Marcus, I know you remember what I taught you about needlepoint when you blossomed.”

Marcus began to argue but his mother did not want to own to her past passiveness in front of these people, wishing instead to pile on top of the lies they were already selling about Marcus, leaving him no choice but to pretend that he’d been given a choice on what to become, a man or a mother man. His father had been quiet clear on which he expected his son to be.

Always flanking Miss Swan at the bigger parties were two fortunate gentlemen with whom Marcus was expected to become bosom friends. He found this a chore.

These were the fortunate gentlemen who had failed to hold the interest of Lord Esca. Marcus could see why. Unlike himself and Frtnt Watson, these procreate men seemed to be frailer, were slender, and graceful in every movement. Their names were pretty alterations and abbreviations of the masculine names they had been given at birth. ( _Marky_ was a nickname that had appeared when the cycles had, but had never caught on like these names had done.)

Fortunate Hiddleson gave Marcus permission to call him _Tommy_ as if they were already the best of friends. Tommy was tall, but whip-thin, soft-spoken, with beautiful blonde curls that kept him safe from the presumption that he was anything but fruitful.

Fortunate Levitt was to be known by his first and middle initials JG, always said together as one sweet word, _jay-jee_. He was short, thin, and frankly adorable with dimples in a multitude of smiles. Everything the two of them did was graceful; every pose they struck beautiful. Marcus became sick with envy.

They agreed to a card game, which Marcus won all too easily. JG smirked primly and said, “You play like a man.”

He gritted his teeth, “Tis how I learned the game.”

“I would advise you to throw a game occasionally to spare the feelings of your gentleman callers, but as you are married already, there is no need.”

“Yes, that is right. _I_ am married,” Marcus said. The sting visibly affected both the unmarried fortunate men, but his moment of triumph was short lived.

“And where has the rascal gotten off to?” Tommy asked; his voice too sweet like Miss Swan’s when coating an insult with kindness. “I’ve been eager to meet him. He must be a _fascinating_ fellow.”

“No doubt about it,” JG insisted, “It takes an … _interesting_ character and no small amount of _peculiar talent_ to seek out and capture _the Fortunate Captain Aquila_.” Here the boy’s brown eyes shifted up and down Marcus’s torso and as they slid along the length of Marcus’ shoulders, JG shook his own as if the motion might adjust Marcus’ posture from across the table.

Tommy snorted into his hand, managing to make it sound like a cough and following it with a complaint that the cool mornings were wearing on his system. Miss Swan, across the room, was watching and smirking superiorly.

Cheeks burning from the insinuation that he had married a man who would only have other men, Marcus reminded himself that he had to harden his skin for this life—and that it would surely give his mother a heart attack if he hit JG’s dimpled face on Esca’s behalf, though the attack was warranted after such blasphemous slander. As true as it was, it did not give anyone the right to insinuate it to his face. With a leaf from Uncle’s book, Marcus did not deign to respond to such a low comment, and acted as if he had heard nothing.

It did not stop the words from shredding him on the inside.

|||

With fault to that last humiliating day spent among Miss Swan and her fruitful friends, Marcus had reached his limit. (His temperament was not helped when he’d spent half the night with shooting pains in his calves only to wake and find his ankles nearly as big around as his knees. All the walking into the village and back had its toll, it seemed.) Therefore, he could not endure the thought of any more ridicule, and so when Miss Swan’s newest card invitation showed up, Marcus growled and promptly ripped it to shreds right there over his third helping of porridge.

Esca witnessed the savage display and, leaving his paper in the arm chair, moved behind Marcus’ chair in the breakfast nook and dropped a hand to his shoulder in concern. “Is something the matter, my dear?”

Eyes stinging, Marcus vaulted onto his feet and left the room. Esca was close behind him—given no choice but to chase after his distraught husband. In the library, some girls were dusting the chandelier. They curtsied, and Marcus kindly asked for some refreshments to get them out of the room.

“Marcus—forgive me, but you look nearly ready to cry. Has something happened?”

“Do not trouble yourself, Cunoval. It is only my personal failure to obtain standing in local Society.”

With his lips parted, his bronze hair and big ears catching the light from the window and glowing red, Esca looked aflame with bewilderment. “I am lost. Are you not routinely taking tea at every house in town? I was so pleased to find that you were circulating and filling your days with company… I had begun to think we were settling into our life.”

Marcus inhaled slowly, attempting to find a handle on his tumultuous emotions. “I _have_ been circulating and doing my best to settle in, but, Cunoval, it is not working. No one likes me.” He sank into the nearest chair and covered his eyes with one hand but it did not block out the endless string of memories from the last week. “They tease and ridicule me constantly—all under the guise of the most polite conversations of course, but it is in their eyes and their compliments—“

He cut off abruptly at the return of the servants with snacks. Esca thanked them softly, and Marcus sat up straight, blinking back the fire in his eyes. He felt like such a child, crying over mere words. The moment they were alone again, Esca took the seat opposite him and asked him to continue.

Marcus heaved a sigh. “I have been trained for battle, but not this. They conceal their sharp stingers most efficiently, and I am wounded before I can avoid the trap every time. If I stand up for myself, I end up only shaming my mother or you with my uncouth behavior. I can bear it no longer. Thus, I have decided this morning to adopt your strategy. I will forgo any social engagements and build around myself an air of mystery to match yours. Let them forget we live up here on the hill.”

Liking this idea immensely, Marcus felt infinitely better just saying it aloud. He selected a cake and bit into the mouth-watering treat. But Esca snorted lightly, shaking his head. “Oh, Marcus, don’t. I cannot let you resign yourself to such a lonely fate. Not when I am able to assist you.”

“It is a kind offer, Cunoval,” Marcus said, smacking his lips and selecting another cake. “But I know your distaste for society and will also not allow you to resign yourself to the torturous fate of joining me down there either.”

“I was not speaking of joining you in battle. Only better training you for it. From what I have heard you say of your childhood and family, I have gathered that you never had a governess to teach you the delicate example of an accomplished Fortunate. Might I play that role for you now, to a degree?”

Barely catching the crumb cake as it broke between his lips, Marcus asked past the food in his mouth, “Have I heard you correctly?”

Esca’s grin was impish, his ears more defined, “Your governess, Marcus. I had one, and I do believe I can recall some of the more general lessons.”

“A governess.”

“Do you forget I was believed fruitful well into my twenties?”

“ _Twenties_?” Marcus exclaimed, humored. Esca sighed like a man resigned to allowing this teasing from a trusted friend and nodded. Marcus muted his laughter.

“As a result, I am better-versed than most men in how a fruitful gentleman should behave in Society.”

Marcus scowled, “No doubt you have been greatly amused by my incompetency.”

“Not at all _greatly_ so,” Esca returned teasingly, “I would judge it a mild amusement at best.”

Embarrassed, Marcus covered his face. When his husband spoke, his voice had gone softer and without a trace of teasing,

“It has been endearing to watch, Marcus. But if you truly dread Society due to your lack of proper decorum, I will help you best them all. Tis but a handful of lessons, and you shall be the leader of our county.”

|||

Laughter had reign of the morning. Perhaps another unaccountable silly mood had a grip on Marcus, or perhaps it was only the nature of their conversation. At any rate, Marcus could hardly take the nobleman seriously as Esca conducted his first lesson on how to be more feminine.

“Posture, you must never forget your posture!” Esca said primly in an imitation of his former governess. Marcus stuffed his fist to his mouth to stem his laughter. This person was a far cry from the tough, fierce nobleman with whom Marcus had grown accustomed. Fortunate Esca smiled constantly, moved neatly with sweeping gestures, and sat with his hands folded tidily in his lap—a mirror copy of Fortunate Levitt and the others.

Lifting from his chair with surprising, but theatrical, grace, Esca floated buoyantly across the room to Marcus’ side, where he dropped the act in his own fit of laughter, glowing a light shade of pink.

“You look preposterous doing that!” Marcus informed, laughing with him and shaking his head. “I shudder to think how _I_ would look! Do not make me try!”

“You must. And ignore my affect, I haven’t a knack for it,” Esca said, sobering a little but tapping Marcus’ shoulder to get him to sit up straight. “But you do—I have seen it. You only have to trust the way your body _wants_ to move.”

Marcus hummed ruefully not at all warm to the idea of trusting his body. The last time he had done so, he wound up with child, firmly wedged, as they say, between a rock and a hard place; in need of a husband but unable to wed his love. Nevertheless, he sat up as instructed anyway, not at all surprised to hear Esca scoff lightly at the outcome.

Marcus deflated instantly. “That is Mother’s response every time as well—I cannot help it if sitting upright makes me appear manlier. It is the breadth of my shoulders and irreversible!”

“Actually, it is not,” Esca said calmly. Marcus cut a second glance up to his friend, brow crumbled with shock.

“Is what not? My shoulders?”

With a grin, Esca demonstrated by gripping each of Marcus’ shoulders and pulling them forward. “Keep your spine straight, Marcus, only roll your shoulders. Yes, there. Remember, _forward_ , never back—back makes you broad and strong, forward makes you softer and coy.”

“Goodness,” Marcus breathed, testing the new posture in the glass. The difference was astounding. It felt all together strenuous to hold for long, but it would do for first impressions and portraits. He laughed, and Esca joined him, nodding. “As you can imagine, my shoulders were considered my greatest flaw in beauty. I heard very little else but what to do to hide them.”

A moment of silence stretched as they watched Marcus drop and adopt the new posture repeatedly. His mind drove back over his childhood, the half-remembered lessons his mother had abandoned all too quickly. Despite his shortcomings today, Marcus was suddenly grateful she had given in and had not subjected him to the kind of torture Esca had just described, for Marcus understood now that even raised fruitful, he would not have been saved the ridicule he faced every day. He would have only suffered the anguish at a younger, more tender age.

Beside him, Esca continued to demonstrate the posture as a reference for Marcus’ experiments. To see the man adopting such forced habits made his natural state of defiance suddenly very understandable.

“That is it, Marcus. You no longer look a solider at attention and will fit in with any social gathering now.”

“I am still not the picture of grace. Look at me—why must my neck be so much thicker than anyone else’s? I feel as if my cravats are so much larger than others.”

“It is not so bad, trust me, my friend. You are only self-conscious. Your proportions are correct and fetching. They need only to be fixed into a docile manner.”

“I wish I wasn’t so very tall,” he muttered despondently. “I was never so tall until I came here. I suppose, though, that always being next to the towering prince—“ He cut himself off and changed the subject. “Have any more tricks, Cunoval?”

“To be shorter, I have not,” Esca said, managing to make it sound light hearted. Marcus laughed a little. Esca thumped him on the back and suggested they mimic a tea party for practice. Over the tea set, Marcus was systematically corrected on every aspect from the dishes themselves--“You must compliment any decorations you see added to the china. Tis someone’s great accomplishment, to be sure”—to how to hold his cup –“Never from the top like that, Marcus. You must hold the handle, and _sip_ ”—to chewing his food.

“I think I have at least basic table manners,” Marcus muttered darkly. “I do not chew with my mouth open nor do I speak past my food.”

“To be sure, but—and please know, this is only the strictest manner and nothing _I_ care about—but the gusto with which you devour the cakes _might_ be off putting to some, in which case I advise moderation and small bites.”

Stopping with his fourth finger sandwich half-way to his mouth, Marcus sat aside the food, for he knew instantly that he had been devouring the snack for no other reason than it was in front of him. No wonder he was such a giant. He dusted his fingers on his napkin.

“There, you see. I feel prettier already,” Marcus praised. Esca, having been on the verge of wincing at his own advice, relaxed.

Marcus could sit under the stare of the last sandwich no longer and stuffed it in his mouth after all. Esca snorted and winked.

After chewing and washing it down with a sip of tea, Marcus happily considered his next social engagement. “Thank you, Cunoval. I feel I will benefit greatly from just these corrections.”

“It may turn out to be our only lesson. I fear I cannot recall much else.”

“Feel free to correct me if ever you see an opportunity.”


	8. Puppies and Pictures

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Snow day means lots of writing! Yay!

The Old Man had been confined to his bed ever since the last dinner with Harriet at Brigantes. Two long weeks later, the aged nobleman found the strength to go about in his chair once more. Therefore to celebrate, Marcus and his father-in-law convinced both Esca and the nurse to sit for a game of cards after dinner, an evening that no one had anticipated to be so competitive.

It was by far the most pleasant after dinner hour Marcus had so far spent in the house. His cheeks had begun to hurt from smiling, and Nurse Sasstica was rather beautiful when she forgot to be so rigid and disconnected. Esca and his father bantered playfully about who would win and eagerly revealed one another’s tells to the rest of the table out of loving spite.

The parlor was filled with laughter and the energy of secrets as everyone held their cards close to their chests and made their wages. With night pressing heavily at the windows, Esca announced that he was going to win the game once and for all so that they might all retire to bed.

“WHAT’S YOUR HURRY FOR BED, ESCA? HAVEN’T GOT A SUITOR CALLING EARLY FOR BREAKFAST, HAVE YOU?” the old man asked with genuine interest. Alarmed, Marcus looked to his husband in time to see Esca’s good humor crumple with a morose sigh instead of an answer.

Nurse Sasstica’s smile faded, too, and she looked down at her cards, then over at her patient, the same tremulous sadness in her eyes.

Esca placed a final bet as if nothing was wrong, calling the bluffs of everyone at the table. Marcus had not quite caught up to what was happening when the Old Man spoke to him,

“EWAN! IT’S YOUR TURN! SHOW HIM WHAT A WINNING HAND LOOKS LIKE!” and it was then Marcus realized that the Old Man was misplaced in time within his mind, mistaking Marcus for Esca’s closest deceased brother.

Clearing his throat and shaking off his shock, Marcus took his cue from the others at the table to ignore the disintegrating mind of the Lord of Brigantes. He obliged his father-in-law, showing a fan of neatly arranged cards. The others laid down their hands, defeated. The old man cackled. “THAT’S MY BOY!”

“Time for bed, Father.” Esca announced with hollow cheeriness, standing to give the old man a kiss to his winkled old cheek. Nurse Sasstica freed the wheels on his chair and turned him for his room situated next door. His frail health had moved him to the ground floor some years ago. At the abrupt change, his mind seemed to clear. He looked all about himself as if lost. “Alice?” he gasped at the memory of her death, “No! --and Cradoc, and Ewan, oh” he moaned in misery and then looked around sharply, “—Esca! My boy—my boy, Esca?”

Instantly to a knee at his father’s side, Esca answered him, “Yes, Father? I am here still.”

“Good, good…” he mumbled, troubled and squeezing Esca’s hand. “I remember, now, Esca. I remember…”

Esca pulled Marcus into his arms. “Do you remember Marcus, father? Do you remember the fortunate captain? My husband? We are a happy family again, Father, do not be sad!”

“AH! YES!” the old man’s face split into a smile, and all hearts eased at the sight. Cackling, the old man motioned for Marcus to come closer. Thinking himself to be whispering, he said, “How is he fairing in bed—keeps up with you?—“

Esca interjected with hasty goodnights, and the nurse promptly wheeled him away. Marcus, still blushing from such a bold inquiry could barely look Esca in the eye.

“I assure you, I would have given him a satisfying report.”

Esca laughed, embarrassed. “You needn’t comply to his _every_ whim—he _is_ mad.”

Marcus clapped his friend on the shoulder. “You are inclined to overcompensate again. There is no need to strive _so_ hard to defend my sensibilities if you are meant to be overthrowing them so regularly.”

Color rose up Esca’s neck and he cleared his throat. “Yes…you are right….oh!” his eye had lit on the game table as he cast about for a change of subject. “That was an impressive win, Marcus. I suppose you learned from the best in your barracks.”

Memory kicked Marcus in the gut. “Oh—I have been told I play too much like a man at cards. I forgot to lose the game.”

Esca chuckled. “Now that you bring it up, this is a matter on which I can correct you, if you will hear it.”

“Go on.” The servants had long put out the lights of the corridors and they now lit their way through the monolithic house with a candle each.

“Girls and fortunate boys are not taught to lose the game—only to distract their suitor from it entirely so that they do not win. Losing on purpose—that is a good trick if done delicately, but it should be a last effort. You should win the game because the gentleman has not paid close enough attention to his cards. He will never be sorry he lost if he had an hour of coy conversation.”

“Ah, I see,” Marcus laughed happily with the knowledge and then Esca touched his elbow casually at the top of the stairs as silent goodnight.

“Good night, my dear,” Marcus said dutifully. He received the expected press of soft lips to his smooth cheek, a touch of warm breath, the light tickle of Esca’s neat beard. Usually, if his day of overseeing the reconstruction of the estate was not too overtaxing, Esca smirked and returned the sentiment. Tonight, however, the weight of his father’s illnesses weighed on him. Marcus spoke before Esca turned away, “You did not seem surprised by his behavior. His mind must have been going for some time now.”

Esca sighed, “He has been forgetful almost as long as I’ve known him—he was nearly fifty when I was born--but as I’ve grown, he has worsened. You met a man not afraid to speak his mind, or laugh at what humored him. More accurately, my father knew no better. Now, I’m afraid it is not just his manners that are slipping away, but names and dates as well. Dr. Watson warns me that soon it could even be faces.”

“Cunoval, what a devastating time this must be for you—I wish you had said something when he first began losing names. It came as a rather horrible shock for me this evening.”

Esca stared and after a beat or two said, “You had not been visiting him while he was bedridden. I took that to mean you did not care.”

Marcus inhaled and took a half step back, “Visit him?” he echoed.

In the flickering light, Esca stared.

Swallowing and beginning to feel a fool, Marcus confessed, embarrassed and ashamed of himself, “As your fortunate husband, I suppose I should have recognized my duty but—Cunoval, I did not visit him because I feel I do not know him well enough to see him in such a frail state! I—I believed I had been acting in propriety. Truly. I would never deliberately offend you or your father. Not after you have shown me such kindness.”

Lifting a hand, Esca put a pause to what would have been an endless stream of explanation and pleas for forgiveness. In the combined glow of their flames, Esca’s eyes shone with an unnamable light, “I believe you would not, Marcus; it is no matter. He shouldn’t have known you half the time had you realized your duty, so perhaps it is better that you, at least, were spared this heartache.”

“Is there anything I could do for you?” Marcus asked.

With a smirk, Esca came up and pressed another bearded kiss to Marcus’ jaw, “Good night, my dear.”

Marcus watched Esca slipped away, the pale orange glow of his candle fading from the gap under the door as he moved further into his room.

 _He may be a good friend yet. If only work didn’t keep us so separated_ , Marcus thought, making his way to his bed. Before falling asleep with low gaseous rumbling--quite common after dinner--vibrating under his hand on the burgeoning curve in his belly, Marcus vowed to be a more attentive son in law. It was the least he could do for Esca to ensure that his aging father had company to cheer him while Esca was away.

|||

Early the next morning, Marcus found his father in law in a happy mood, and was relieved when he was greeted with a sly, “There is the _Jewel_ of the Militia!” for it meant he was no longer misplaced in time and was well aware his son was a man with a ridiculous fruitful gentleman as a husband. Marcus sat across from the Old Man and challenged him to a game of chess.

Two hours later, Marcus realized he’d underestimated his opponent. He’d had the notion that it would take but a short while to win the game, thus freeing him from his new family obligation. But it was not so. He was old, but the Lord of Brigantes was crafty with his ivory.

Cackling, the Old Man captured Marcus’ remaining rook, and the fruitful solider swore--forgetting entirely the lady who stitched a bonnet in the corner. Settling in to rethink his whole strategy, the parlor door opened and the butler bowed stiffly, “Doctor and Fortunate Watson, sir.”

Alarmed by this unannounced visit, Marcus stood. The memory of the charming couple he had met infrequently in his engagement delighted him. His blood charged with the promise of company, but his stomach tensed at the prospect of hosting on such short notice.

Dr. Watson was first into the room, black bag in hand, cheery smile brightening his round face. At the sight of him, the Old Man cried out, “DEAR DOCTOR! HOW GOOD TO SEE YOU, OLD BOY!”

As John bounded forward to grip the old man’s forearm, the slender figure of his husband made its way into the room, a tight grin stretching his lips. John turned straight to Marcus, “Good to see you again, Captain. You’re looking well.”

“Thank you,” Marcus managed through the joy of hearing his old address so casually.

“We do apologize for seeming to barge in,” John said, reaching out an arm for Sherlock to step into. Marcus inclined his head in greeting to the other fruitful gentleman. “But your father-in-law and I have had a standing date for every third Sunday to go through the usual examinations followed by a game of chess promised to be vexing on my part.”

With a chuckle, Marcus motioned to the board, “I am currently near surrender in just such a battle.”

Cackling the Old Man motioned for Sasstica, who had removed herself from the corner and stood behind him, to move his chair from under the table into a space more convenient for the doctor’s administrations.

Soon after, Marcus retreated from the room to allow for privacy, Sherlock accompanying him to the sitting room. Tea was brought in and Sherlock declined sitting in favor of a few turns about the room, insisting he was not in a mood to sit. “I assume you are settling in happily up here on the hill.”

“O-oh, yes,” Marcus almost stammered, cleared his throat, “I am blessed.”

There was a lull, and Marcus finally thought to ask after the boy he had seen the fortunate gentleman fretting over. Sherlock smiled, “I dare say you will soon have children of your own, Captain, and you will be as routinely shocked by their development. Hamish is at this moment writing lines for unsanctioned language he picked up Lord knows where.” Sherlock affectionately rolled his eyes.

Marcus allowed a robust laugh, “Poor child! Return to him with my sincerest condolences.”

Sherlock smiled and it seemed somewhat forced. Another silence fell, Sherlock circled.

Marcus busied himself with his tea before it went cold. Sherlock finally sat; a flourish of azure coat tails. Today he sported a rather large white rose in his lapel with a line of diamonds pinned down the center of his cravat. Marcus did not miss the way the guests’ little grey eyes swept up and down his rather muted outfit, lingering uncomfortably long on his abdomen (where Marcus hoped the swelling was still unnoticeable). He had woken feeling bloated from head to toe and so dressed in colors to camouflage the extra pounds: a black waist coat over a shirt of crimson so deep it appeared nearly black.

He tried not to fidget or wish he’d added more jewels. Simple pearl cuff links had seemed plenty this morning. Sherlock sipped his tea and looked about the room. “This room is unchanged.”

“Pardon?”

“Marcus--may I call you Marcus and be known to you as Sherly? _Wonderful_. Marcus, I have prided myself these last two years of being the second part of the only two souls in our little community who ever took tea in this house. This is, of course, due to my husband’s dedication to the Old Man’s health. The house has for near-on fifteen years now, been closed to parties and gatherings and such frivolities but for those delightful endeavors to entertain you during your engagement.”

Marcus hummed, “Yes, I have gathered as much and intend to rectify the seclusion once I’ve fixed up the place.”

“I’m made glad to hear it!” Sherlock said, his voice hardly matching his sentiments. “I do hope to include you in my circle of dearest friends.”

Pleased to hear it, Marcus smiled and spoke a little more hastily than he intended, his desperation for company taking the lead, “I have ample free time and would happily oblige you.”

At this, Sherlock’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly and darted about the room once more, “And where is the young Lord Cunoval this afternoon?”

“On estate business.”

“Shame, I had rather hoped to see him.”

“And why is that?”

“To speak candidly--as dear friends are allowed to do, you understand--I had hoped to ascertain his attachment to you.”

Marcus spurted into his tea, scalded his upper lip. “Pardon?”

Eyebrows raised as if he could possibly be unaware of his transgression, the fruitful man lifted his shoulders, “One hears such things, you know.”

“What sort of things, s’am?”

“Oh, just things,” Sherlock spoke mischievously, stirring his tea with a secret smile. Marcus stood abruptly, fingers curling into his palms.

“Make your meaning clear at once!”

The look of alarm on Sherlock’s face nearly made Marcus ashamed of his fervor, but he held his ground. Sherlock sat his cup down and without breaking eye contact, rose so gracefully to his feet that Marcus took a step back as if intimidated by a man so much smaller than he.

“I only meant to say I have heard it on first-hand account that Lord Esca has been made into a love struck man of half his age--John witnessed it himself some days ago upon a call to see to the Old Man when his lungs began to rattle. He reported that he saw the two of you from a distance as he approached the house and such a description hardly fits a man I have known my whole life to be nothing but surly and overly-aggressive in expression.”

Ashamed, embarrassed, and regretting his anger instantly, Marcus dipped his head, sat down, and made a valiant effort to apologize and move on, but to his horror, Sherlock Watson’s interest was piqued and so he wouldn’t budge from the topic.

“All is well between the two of you, I hope?”

“Of course, of course,” Marcus insisted, keeping as much of his panic from his voice as possible. Sherlock examined him curiously and forgot about his tea.

“Marriage is often not everything a young couple anticipates.”

“All is well, Fortunate Watson, I assure you,” Marcus said almost through his teeth, “I am only--” and he promptly swallowed the excuse that his Change tampered with his moods. For his condition was unannounced. Though the way Sherlock kept eyeing his figure made Marcus doubt his secret was so unknown.

Sherlock remained unconvinced, “Should I consider that my husband was mistaken due to the distance?”

“There was no mistake,” Marcus insisted, then made an attempt at actually sounding convincing. “Truthfully, there have been one or two minor missteps as we learn to live so intimately, but such should be expected in every union.”

The pale-skinned, dark-curled fortunate lifted an eyebrow, and silence fell once more.

“As a friend, my I inquire if your-- _soldierly_ mannerisms--aren’t, in part, to be blamed for the, as you call them, missteps?”

Marcus put his cup down before he broke it and Sherlock continued, “It is only that England has surely never known a fortunate member of nobility to be so--well,” here he motioned to indicate Marcus head to foot, a smirk sparking in his eye. “Perhaps Lord Esca is in want of more… grace.”

Once again Marcus found himself straight up on his feet. “I have suddenly recalled a prior commitment, Fortunate Watson. You will have to leave.” Marcus’ face burned red but he kept it as stoic as possible, and though a part of him was horrified that he would treat a guest so, another part refused to soften the dismissal with regrets and apologizes and promises. As curt and rude as it was, his pride was satisfied with his unfeeling words.

Sherlock lifted to his feet, once again displaying the grace he had so boldly pointed out that Marcus seriously lacked. His jaw was hard, his eyes dark and boring into Marcus as if to promise him he would rue the day, and without a word, the other fruitful gentleman turned and left the room.

|||

With a taste of entertaining guests, and a need to put Fortunate Watson far from mind, Marcus begged Capt. Aquila up to the house under the pretense that Old Cunoval demanded his company. The Old Man did indeed sometimes get lost in the past, and wished to speak to his comrade-in-arms. Capt. Aquila was obliging.

The white haired men played a game of cards. Marcus joined them for lack of anything better to do after having tried escape from his misery in books, long walks, and his first attempt at needle point. With his uncle present, Marcus grasped some distraction at last. Capt. Aquila had been doing a great job of drawing the topic away from Marcus’ career (and scandal) keeping it fixed a good ten or twenty years before he was even born.

By now, the group was through their fourth game, and Uncle and Cunoval were laughing their way through yet another (perhaps the hundredth) story about their younger days before matrimony and title separated them. Marcus had been having a good time, but found himself now forcing polite laughs through his weariness.

“What a wonderful thought,” Capt. Aquila chortled past the cigar in his mouth. “Had things been but a little different for your poor great uncle, Cunoval, than our boys would have grown up together.”

The conversation had turned to idle ponderings on how life would have been if things had gone differently. It seemed Capt. Aquila once had a country house near where Cunoval had lived before inheriting Brigantes Abbey, and both were delighted at the idea that they might have grown old as neighbors.

It was a new thought for Marcus. He had always considered how life should be if certain things had been different (his father, his leg, Liathan’s opinion) but he had never considered factors from before his birth.

Had he known Esca since childhood, where would he be by now?

Marcus would have visited Cunoval and played with Esca and his brothers. They would have run boisterously through whatever modest country house Cunoval had before his title, sliding down the railings, hiding in the cupboards. Undoubtedly, Marcus would have at first been closer to the elder Cunovals, wanting to have more in common with the older, stronger young men than with the pretty little runt … but at puberty Ewan and Cradoc would have been forced to drop Marcus as a close comrade, and then perhaps he and Esca would have grown close while everyone waited for Esca’s blossoming….

They might have spent hours riding together, speaking candidly about their prospects, what held their attentions, the pain caused them by their fathers’ opinions… Esca might have persuaded Marcus from enlisting…

And with friends in favor of fortunate men, Marcus would certainly have accepted that part of himself, and so he would know what he was about by now, what to do and say and how to dress… _gods_ he might have even married a good man ages ago, had a few children getting tall like young Hamish...

It was a pretty dream and, like all fantasies, void of strife. In the real world, love was messier, the people not perfect. Liathan had yet to even write to Marcus, still angrier than Marcus had predicted the prince would be. With a sharp sting, he missed Liathan so suddenly that he lost his breath.

Marcus turned his hand of cards face first onto the table. “Please, carry on without me. I must ask to be excused.”

The amiable cackling was subdued.

“All is well, Marcus?” Capt. Aquila asked, his shining mirth-filled eyes darkening with concern. Marcus lowered his voice so that the old man was not likely to hear. “It is the smoke, Uncle,” he said. The cigars the pair of old men had taken to puffing had filled the room with a scratchy smoke. It did not bother Marcus in that way, but he pretended it did. It was the perfect excuse to be released from the smell that he linked so closely with the prince of England.

“Oh, of course, Marcus, of course,” Uncle said, looking half-panicked. Marcus gripped the man’s shoulder in reassurance, turned to his father-in-law and raised his voice,

“Lord Cunoval, I must leave you to my Uncle now. It is nearly six o’clock and my husband will be in the house shortly. I must change my clothes for dinner!”

“THAT’S FINE, CAPTAIN. FINE. HA! A MAN LEAVES A WINNING HAND TO PUT ON PRETTY THINGS FOR MY BOY! WHAT DO YOU THINK OF THAT, AQUILA?”

Marcus left his soft-voiced Uncle chuckling happily and sought privacy, a place where his tears could go unnoticed. He had not realized how greatly he had missed such pastimes until tonight. He and Liathan used to spend hours just as this, gambling, speaking intimately and freely… So much desire, so much laughter and love… it had culminated in a child but instead of joy, there was nothing but a stain of regret and shame to darken the world.

Not even a waft of cigar smoke was left untainted by this mistake.

|||

On a day which did not allow the sun to warm the chilled air, Marcus donned the black and green cloak Esca had gotten him (by far his favorite one) and made his way down to the stables. He had declined another invitation to Fortunate Levitt’s for tea today, not for any weariness against the idea of battle but in deference to the old man who wanted a chess opponent. However, Old Cunoval was now asleep and Marcus sought a diversion from the mundane silence of the house by venturing to have a look at a litter of puppies in the barn.

The structure was monolithic and smelled equal parts horse and hay. Esca was expectantly in the area, attending to business with a few gentlemen, standing some distance away, far enough that Marcus could not understand their words but could ascertain Esca’s stern business expression. Without even a wave to one another, they silently agreed that they had better not sully Esca’s business strategies with silly play-acting.

The puppies were housed between a warm stack of hay and an overturned wheelbarrow. The mother was at the moment, asleep, but her six pups were happy to find a visitor pushing the overgrown weeds aside to peek in. They yipped and bounced, waking the bitch, who yawned widely. Marcus could only imagine the constant drain six puppies must be on her energy. He silently prayed that his child would be docile and nothing like this rowdy bunch, who were now venturing from their little home to crawl all around his knees and ankles.

Cooing over the little rascals as his heart melted, Marcus knelt on all fours to better see inside. Most of them were brown, but there was one with a dapple of white across her chest and face. She bumped her nose against Marcus’ mouth and licked his face when he got low enough. He laughed when she nipped his nose. While he picked each of them up one at a time to say hello and let them lick his face some more, he was for a time distracted by falling in love over and over again.

Slowly, he became aware—as he half listened to the mummers of business behind him-- that he had stolen his husband’s attention. Not without a small degree of alarm, Marcus glanced back, and saw that his suspicion was correct. The visiting gentlemen stood with their backs to the barn, and so did not notice that--though Esca continued participating in their discussion--he had lost interest in it, had begun to watch the way Marcus crawled about on his knees instead.

Esca’s attention alone, of course, was not the cause of Marcus’ distress—for he’d long since become accustomed to catching Liathan’s special interest—but the plain fact now was that Marcus, for the first time in his life, was free to allow the attention to continue. For fifteen years, if ever he found he had unwittingly captured the prince’s attention in that way, he strove extra carefully to correct his manner and speech—going even so far as to leave the immediate area altogether. But not so anymore, and if he could not have Liathan’s attentions, then why not Esca’s? Marcus was fruitful, wed, and in the eyesight of his husband. _Why should he stop_?

With that thought, Marcus experienced the most profound sense of freedom. What was so very wrong with allowing a little grace into his movement? He needed to practice that anyway, to better his opponents in Society and to be more practiced in the ways of his body for when Liathan came back to him. Esca was a fair test subject, desirous of the same things as the prince, and an understanding friend besides. What was so very obscene about presenting his body in advantageous postures when he could?

With a wicked quirk in the corner of his mouth, Marcus remained conscious of what his hips and thighs were doing as he continued to play with the puppies. He made sure never to be obvious in what he was doing; maintained a strict aura of innocence—as Esca had pointed out was feminine and fetching—as he lowered to his elbows and then onto his stomach, hitching up a knee--as if unconsciously--to give shape to his rear. Esca’s voice dropped out of the conversation entirely. Marcus found that he was having the simplest fun he had had in years.

Realizing that these little puppies could keep him out all evening and that it was unwise to allow it, Marcus gathered them all back into their makeshift house (where they instantly went to the teat) and stood to dust his clothes. Esca was still looking at him, so he bent over to brush his knees, and then fanned his cloak and twisted carefully to check his own bottom, brushing it repeatedly as if there were stubborn bits of hay that clung there. When he glanced through his eyelashes, he saw that Esca was onto him, giving him a fiery smirk that was meant to be reproachful.

Marcus winked and disappeared around the corner before having his laugh on the matter, thrilled to know that his body had power over the minds of men. He was still chortling happily when he made it into the house.

|||

Marcus was very comfortable in the library window seat. Though the air outside was crisp enough to paint the leaves in vivid hues, the sun felt bright and warm on his face through the window glass. He sat with an old tome in his hands. He had discovered a book of art depicting fortunate men in all forms, Changed and Unchanged. He was stopped on a likeness of a pregnant man in his natural state, slowly wadding into a sparkling lake. This was Marcus’ first visual education on what was exactly to happen to his body as the child grew.

He was greatly uncomfortable with the notion of _breasts_ as shaped and literal as a woman’s; he had somehow never imagined….

The door opened, and in strode Esca from his extensive work overseeing the grounds repairs. The consultation Marcus had briefly witnessed was at last over, and Esca still had a lick of fire in his expression as he asked, “Did you enjoy the puppies?”

“Yes, I did, thank you,” Marcus said with a smirk, lifting a page to turn it but dropping it again to admire the artistry of the drawing a little more. What little Marcus comprehended on the process did little to explain to him how the artist had managed the trick of light playing on the water.

Esca’s boots thudded softly across the rug and the smell of outdoors tickled Marcus’ nose as Esca leaned quite close to see the book and inhaled deeply. “Ah, yes. That is one I am most proud of--but it proved to be rather delicate to show off.”

Marcus sniffed to control an on-coming sneeze from the potent smell of hay, and frowned, “Whatever do you mean?”

“I drew it,” Esca said, “As I did all the work in that book.”

Surprised, Marcus closed it gently, blushing at the thought of Esca carefully examining the changed figure closely enough to draw it so sensually. Barely a third of the subjects had been clothed. All of them had seemed to Marcus to be various sorts of carnal changlings. The accusation jumped from his lips before he could stop it. “I recall fortunate men have never held your attentions.”

His voice was rather more scathing than was called for and Esca looked rightly offended; Marcus could not explain his ire if asked, but it most closely resembled that he had believed himself to be marrying one kind of man and felt grossly betrayed to find him to be another. If Esca desired the lovely grace so… then how could he have wanted someone like Marcus?

“I spoke of those fortunate men that were in my _previous_ acquaintance, Marcus.” Esca defended kindly in the face of Marcus’ anger. “You must see that when changed, none of them could possibly match those drawings.”

This was true. One of the only reasons Marcus had not dismissed the collection upon finding it was that most of the fruitful men depicted carried the weight of well-developed muscle as well as an unborn child. Marcus had spent the majority of his life actively avoiding all thought of his own sex, but even so he had not allowed the juxtaposition of strength and womb. In short, he had seen himself in Esca's drawings and had been mesmerized. His anger dropped away as quickly as it had come.

“You were imagining me to one day be your drawings brought to life,” Marcus murmured, feeling red all over. “That is what you meant you when you said I was too perfect to be believed?”

The corner of Esca’s mouth quirked, “What else could I have meant?”

Marcus cleared his throat, his eyes on the floor, “Forgive me, but I believed you to be… simply… _relieved_ that as a man, you had found a way to marry another man without scorn. I thought perhaps my fruitfulness was only appreciated in that it allowed a loophole.”

“How could _that_ be your first assumption of me?”

“Because look at me! I am more _man_ than fruitful,” Marcus fairly burst, “yet you seemed so keen… what else could I have imagined?”

Esca looked at him, and looked at him, unblinking through a long silence and then he nodded, “I suppose with your history, such favor is all you have ever expected. You were believed to be a man, and thus any attention you received from men would have been in the form of such unsanctioned desires. Indeed, such is how your child came to be.”

“I suppose, then, that the child is further tainted in your mind? Conceived not only out of wed lock but by a man who loved his own kind?”

Esca looked aghast by Marcus’ hard and unfriendly tone, “You are so quick to jump to conclusions about me, Marcus. You put scorn in my heart when there is none. Recall that I was believed to be fruitful when I made those drawings. See, then, that I was a fortunate man who loved my own kind most wickedly.”

Marcus coughed in surprise and then laughed. “No, I had yet to consider…. I say, you _are_ more complex than meets the eye.”

“And I learned the same of you the night of our wedding. Hence why I did not turn you away, “ Esca sighed, leaned back in a relaxed pose, eyes traveling to the ceiling overhead in his distant fields of thought, “I take it you planned that we would conceive a child as mere duty, and your time of change would be some unpleasant months that we would both soldier through together?” Hearing it from Esca’s lips it sounded rather foolish. When Marcus glanced up, Esca was smirking at him, fire in his eyes. “That is not at all what I had in mind for us, Marcus.”

It all made sense now, why Esca had displayed such enthusiasm for teaching him to be more graceful. It had been puzzling Marcus. Never in his thirty three years had anyone ever encouraged such delicacy in him. He liked pleasing people, but this marked the first time in his life that achieving that end meant being lighter on his feet, gentler with all he touched, and sweeter in all he said. It felt strange, yet he had not refused to do it for how pleasant it had been to feel liked.

Looking at the book in his lap was easier than looking at Esca’s unmasked desire. To change the subject to something lighter and more manageable, he asked, “If these are your creation, how then are they in their own bound volume?”

“Drawing is not enough of an achievement for a Fortunate Lord of Brigantes,” Esca answered easily, carefully masking his desire once more in the name of conversation, “and so I was instructed to adopt another craft by which to demonstrate creativity and skill. I chose book binding. I made several journals for my mother to use. And I bound all my drawings”

Only now did Marcus realize the hand-made nature of the binding; it was extraordinarily done. When he inquired about it, Esca smirked and took the old book, retreated to his usual chair and propped his feet on the ottoman, let the tome fall open on his knee to a random page.

Marcus cleared a slight catch in his throat, mind still reeling from all he had learned. “They are extraordinary… and the models?”

Esca’s smile was nearly as wide as his ears, “There were none, Marcus. I took from the silhouettes in the medical tomes my mother bought and used my imagination for the rest.”

“You are talented,” Marcus huffed. “I should be much easier in gatherings with other fruitful gentlemen if I had such an achievement to discuss. Instead, all I have by way of conversation is battle strategy.” As he spoke, Marcus shifted through the stacks of the books in front of him, idly looking out for more handmade volumes. There were none.

“Your governess will soon rectify that oversight in your education.”

Marcus glanced up from a book--one of those medical tomes Esca had spoken of; filled with clinical silhouettes of breasts and distended stomachs--and Esca winked at him playfully. Marcus laughed and admitted, “I could hardly draw a straight line if my life depended upon it.”

“Then book binding shall be your refuge. I think you’ll like it--tis possible to be very creative and the finished product could never be declared purely feminine. Even the prettiest of books are gender neutral, you see.”

“Hence why a young Esca chose to learn it as a fruitful pupil.”

“Indeed. It has been some years, but I am sure to remember the steps. We will send for the materials and begin as soon as possible.”

Marcus opened the next book in his stack. It was a fictional novel about five fortunate brothers with little fortune, and (judging by the last page which Marcus skimmed quickly) how they each found rich, handsome husbands. Bored, he shut the book.

“Our joyous announcement has been prematurely made for us by the keen eye of the public, s’am. I was congratulated earlier--after your _boisterous_ display-- on my encroaching fatherhood.”

Alarmed, Marcus asked, “Do you think they suspect it too soon? Or--“

“Oh, no. I do not think so. As you well know, I was in a consultation with the neighbors a moment ago. Apparently everywhere is abuzz with nothing but excitement for us.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Marcus confessed, relief and unrelenting desperation grappling for a dominant hold within his chest. No one suspected him, yet they might still unravel it all before the end. Perhaps it was the anxiety which stimulated the usual bubbling in his stomach. He put a hand there as if to calm the storm.

“We have succeeded,” Esca said cheerily enough though his expression remained guarded, his grey eyes noting Marcus’ hand pressing his shirt down and emphasizing the new shape of his stomach. Esca’s pictures brought to life.

“Do not relax yet,” Marcus warned, promptly adjusting his shirt to hide his shape once more, “People believe what they want to believe. We can never give them any reason to doubt us or they will unravel our lies faster than we can spin them anew.”

“There is no arguing with you there.” Esca said mildly, attention falling away from Marcus now that he seemed just a man once more. He turned a few pages in his book, no longer interested in Marcus. Soon enough he would leave the library and perhaps not say another word to Marcus for another day and a half. Unless there was some matter with the Old Man, they rarely came together anymore.

“Esca—“ Marcus was not sure how to phrase his concern, so simply stated the obvious, “The worst thing we can do right now is to appear distant. We must capitalize on this brief window of time, before the doctor forbids our unions.”

His idle page turning slowed to a stop, and Esca stared at Marcus for a strong stretch of time, waiting for him to continue, but Marcus waited for a proper response.

“We did speak once or twice about sharing through the night,” Esca eventually said, eyes flicking down to the page. He closed the book. Marcus nodded curtly. “I am not so Changed yet. We must carry on as before, until my laying-in officially begins.”

“Then we are agreed,” Esca said, standing and going for the door. “I will come to your room tonight.”


	9. A Midwife and a Mistake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just a little technicality warning: there is a discussion about Frued in this chapter, and we know Frued wrote way later than this time period, but we used his name for the connotations of his research and fame :) Just wanted to get into the psychology of three genders, so if it helps you at all, just imagine a totally successful, paradigm altering scientist of the time period.

Marcus felt vulnerable stepping from behind his changing screen in just his nightshirt while another looked on. Esca had entered the room and gotten into bed while Marcus still undressed. No longer hidden behind the screen, Marcus just stood there, feeling shy. He thought his nerves were because his shins and feet were bare, nothing but a thin nightshirt to conceal his bump, and he could feel a breeze around his thighs; he had never shared a bed through the night, let alone with so few clothes on.

Esca, sitting in the bed, closed a leather bound portfolio that he had evidently carried with him from his room--which a day ago Marcus would have dismissed as business documents but now he wondered if they weren’t sketches, for the sides of Esca’s dominate hand were darkened with pencil--and placed it on the nearest table. “Marcus,” he greeted.

Marcus nodded his returns, not sure how his voice would sound and unwilling to find out. Esca drew breath and patted the covers next to him, almost as if the whole thing was putting him out except Marcus detected the color in his cheeks. He climbed in as bade, made himself comfortable on his side of the bed.

“Are you warm enough?”

“Yes, thank you,” Marcus murmured. He did not know what it was, but the bed felt cozier than usual. He refused to think it was simply because it was a bed with two in it. He stretched in the softness and warmth and his eyes felt heavy.

“If in the night you find I’ve pilfered all the covers, you need only take back what you need. I won’t be offended.”

“I shall remember,” Marcus said with a grin for he could not imagine a scenario where he would have simply lain there cold, unwilling to risk offense by taking his righteous share of something.

“Good night, then.”

“Good night, dear,” Marcus yawned and within moments he was asleep. He woke again when the warmth beside him was suddenly pulling away.

“My apologies,” Esca’s voice whispered in the darkness near his head, “I only need the piss pot.”

Marcus snorted, slurred, “Don’t fan the covers when you get back in.”

“I wouldn’t consider it,” Esca snickered. Marcus’ reply was only a light snore. When next he woke, it was morning and Esca was gone; the experiment concluded as a complete success.

|||

Marcus had taken to dwelling on the scenario wherein he and Liathan crossed paths once again, and discussed their lives since their last conversation. He sometimes indulged himself by imagining Liathan to confess his misery and to lament openly that he did not make Marcus his own while he had the chance. He would take Marcus up in his arms and kiss him and suggest they run away. Each time he indulged himself so, he was left with only more anger when the fantasy ended to be replaced with reality.

Now, in the midst of such a dark mood, Marcus set up for a pleasant tea, gently arranging the cups and pouring the brew, dropping in his sugar, and he imagined himself meeting Liathan’s beautifully brown eye and saying, _Without you, Your Highness, I find I am in fact happy more often than I am not. Esca has exceeded my expectations as a husband. He is attentive and even charming. And he makes as best a bedfellow as one can ask for._

Marcus could so vividly imagine the look that would then befall Liathan’s face. Marcus knew that Laithan’s mind would instantly take the comment to mean that Esca was a better lover than he and oh the humiliation that would cause him; Marcus would make no corrections and would enjoy the victory he gained without having told a lie. For Esca _was_ a pleasant bedfellow. He had not pilfered the covers nor had he shifted about too much, and never once had Marcus woken feeling overly warm in the night. In fact, it was the best night sleep Marcus has gotten in quite some time.

 _I never believed you would actually go through with it,_ Liathan would choke, distraught at the thought of having been replaced. He would know, then, the pain he has caused Marcus by vowing to marry Lenore instead of he.

_I told I was to marry and gave you the chance to make yourself the groom and you did not. It is your own doing._

_What have I done_? Liathan would gasp.

 _You have let me down._ Marcus would scathe, _I loved you and you disappointed me_ and then he would leave. He would have Liathan see what it is like to be left behind feeling as if he is the one at fault.

Yes, Marcus thought with resolution. If he ever saw Liathan again he would play the blissfully wed fortune that Esca would have him be, he would giggle and sigh and be clingy to Esca over the prospect of an hour’s separation. He would brag on Esca, the way he so diligently cared for his ailing father, for instance. It would be the least he could do. For, as the plain facts were, Esca had yet to disappoint Marcus the way his lover had.

In honor of Esca prevailing in that way over Liathan, Marcus would NOT in any way let the prince in on the fact that Esca s gone from the house more than he is there, that the two of them hardly have anything to discuss beyond the child and their fabrication of being united in body and soul. That Esca is too short, has funny ears and stares too much. Such things Marcus would ignore in favor of his strategy.

And he had a rather wicked and _cunning_ strategy.

There was one thing Liathan could never resist and that was what he could not have. Believing Marcus to be a fellow man, Marcus had been irresistible. Learning he was fruitful and allowed to wed, Liathan had let him go in favor of the next thing he could not have yet would take. Now, married, Marcus would be just that thing again. Even through his anger, Marcus’s blood was titillated by the thought of being returned as the center of Liathan’s passions.

Having not actually consummated the marriage, Marcus would be breaking no true vows to God by returning into the embrace of Liathan. He has remained true to his lover, the father of his child, and though he is now angry, if Liathan would only take him back, then all would be well. For Esca, as a friend, would allow Marcus to have his “affair” and he could find someone of his own to carry on with.

Surely god would forgive the small lie that would be having Liathan to believe that there was a marriage to be broken. Surely, in the name of love, God could forgive that.

|||

“I have been completely absorbed in the works of Sir Charles Darwin,” Marcus told his mother at what had become a customary afternoon tea. Miss Swan was in her usual place on the other side of Harriet. The petite, falsely kind young woman was the single disadvantage to Marcus’ growing intimacy with his mother. (A natural reaction to the growing gulf between himself and his uncle, who could no longer pretend Marcus was a man.)

The other women of Harriet’s circle were tolerable enough, for most were married with children his age, but Miss Swann and anyone younger and under her influence were regular pains in Marcus’ backside. Most of the time, he was convinced they had all signed a pact to torment him for popping out of the blue and stealing the highest station in local Society.

Ignoring Miss Swan’s look of distaste at the mention of the scientist, Marcus continued, “Darwin argues with astonishing evidence that mother males are, in fact, among the world’s fiercest creatures. He even goes so far as to say that we are the next step in the evolutionary ladder he has written about. He hypothesizes that one day women will be obsolete and will become extinct.”

Miss Swan took immediate offense, and so did half the group if the ripple of short breathes was any indication.

Miss Swan spoke loudly, something she did when angry, “The third gender is simply the third gender, Frtnt. Captain. We three exist is a harmonious balance. There is no reason to believe that any one will replace the other!”

“Darwin sounds far too taken with fortunate men,” another woman said with a sage-like shake of her head as if that was all there was too all of his theories.

“He’s not a proper Christian,” another said with a derisive sniff. “No God-fearing man would hypothesize such a thing; the mother of God was a woman.”

Marcus commenced to standing up for his favorite scientist, being as civil as he knew how to do, and Miss Swan defended women in general against him as if he, Marcus, was the very thing that had given Darwin the idea of mother male superiority.

Eventually the others had to pull him and Miss Swan back down into their chairs on opposite sides of the room and change the subject to the matter of Miss Swan’s father having recently traveled ahead of his family to the Caribbean.

Her emanate departure for the Americas was Marcus’ only comfort in putting up with the woman at all, for she would shortly be gone forever and, as it was mostly because of _her_ opinion that Sherlock Watson was not invited to any of the gatherings, the interesting fortunate could make appearances once again.

Still worked up on the issue, Marcus pricked his fingers as he jabbed the needle through the sheaf of parchment he was attempting to bind as per Esca’s instructions, and he swore distastefully under his breath, receiving glowers from the women closest to him. He sucked the drop of blood from his finger and straightened the materials for another attempt, determined to succeed now that his own blood had been shed in the endeavor.

|||

“Captain,” Old Cunoval, remarkably lucid at the moment, waved Marcus closer to the sick bed. The old man had had an episode with his lungs and as per his duty, Marcus sat with him now that Doctor Watson had seen to him and the grave matter needed put to rest in favor of light hearted conversation.

“Yes, sir?” Marcus asked with a smile, sinking both elbows into the soft mattress.

“I’m dying.”

“Not at the moment. Doctor Watson has assured us.”

“But I will be dead before my grandchild lives.”

Stung by such a foreboding prophecy, Marcus huffed loudly, “Don’t say such nonsense—your grandchild will be here before we know it and sharing your mashed food.”

The old man laughed gratefully but patted Marcus’ hand. “Humor a sick old father, would you? Now this book binding business—crafty, I’ve always liked having one in the house. Now you, s’am, have to promise to make something special for me.”

Mirroring the old soldier’s wicked smile, Marcus had to ask, “And what sort of book shall it be, sir?”

“A gift, for my first grandchild; I want you to write down _all_ of my stories for after I’m gone, so the little Cunoval will know me.”

“A biography?” Marcus asked, aghast.

“Of a sort, nothing so formal,” the old man shook his head hastily, frowning with distaste. “No, no, boring reading about another’s whole life. No. Just the interesting bits. The stories Esca and his brothers begged to hear over and over and over again. Their papa’s hero days. Every child needs a hero, Marcus, and I don’t want my own grandchild falling under the impression that the only soldiers in the family are from your side.”

“We would never allow the impression; for starters, it is how my family met yours.”

“Exactly. Will you do this? A simple book, nothing extravagant, just something for the little one to know me by when he’s older.”

The touching idea made Marcus caress his baby bump with a tremulous smile. “I should be honored to take a historical account of your adventures, sir. What child wouldn’t love such bed time stories? Let us begin now.”

|||

A new, specialized doctor arrived in town on a rainy autumn morning, knocking on the heavy doors just as Marcus completed the notations of the third story from the Old Man. The unexpected arrival sent a burst of energy and intrigue through the house that chased away the humdrum beat of daily routine. With ink still splattered on his wrists and bandages nursing his wounded hands from more uncoordinated book binding, Marcus had all but skidded into the grand entrance hall in order to see with his own eyes the anonymous guest, without the slightest idea who it could be.

Esca emerged from his study at the same instant, and with low eyebrows looked from the stranger to Marcus. “A friend of yours, my dear?”

“I have never met him in my life,” Marcus said, though the assumption that this man led armies was not unwarranted with his muscle tone. The stranger was either a soldier or a farm hand.

The man shaking out his rain splattered riding coat was as hairy as a bear, older, taller, and perhaps stronger than Marcus. Esca composed himself, tugging on his lapels as his chest swelled. He strode importantly across the expansive marble floor to learn more. Marcus was quick to follow a few steps behind, attempting to smear away the ink and straighten his cuffs for a presentable appearance.

They reached the guest just as Cottia took his coat and curtsied to his bow. “Lords Cunoval, I presume; Dr. Lucius Guern. Sorry I am late.”

“Late?” Marcus snorted before he could stop himself. Esca turned his head to glance, amused, at Marcus, before taking control of the bewildering situation. “You must forgive us—we were expecting absolutely no one.”

Guern’s heavily bearded face fell long, mouth agape. “You did not receive my letter?”

Marcus and Esca exchanged inquiring looks, then Esca shook his head. “There has been no post.”

“And his highness did not inform you of his hiring me?”

Comprehension thundered into the vast hall like a speeding train. Esca’s attention whipped to Marcus, who sprang straight up onto his toes with a loud gasp, “OH! Prince Liathan has sent you?” the ecstasy in his voice could not be masked. This was the first semblance of communication between them since the day Liathan had forced him to marry another. To even hear his love’s name spoken aloud quickened Marcus’ heart and sent tingles to his toes, let alone the knowledge that the prince thought of him, and the child, so constantly that he had hired a personal physician to take care of Marcus. Dizzy with happiness, Marcus asked as if in a dream, “I had meant to hire a mid-fellow, but I shan’t ignore a gift.”

Guern’s face was an unreadable mask of measured indifference. “I am a mid-fellow, as it happened. The prince is keen that you receive the best care and has honored me by declaring that I should give it.”

All at once, Marcus’ elation drained like a bucket with a rusted bottom. He at last spotted the flower tucked neatly into Dr. Guern’s button hole, and the touch of color in his cravat. This fruitful man was one of Liathan’s _friends_ , one of the lovers he frequented when staying in London. Marcus’ mouth filled with bile as his heart rung itself dry. _Why would you do this?_ He asked the prince in his head. _Poor form, my love. Poor form indeed; his heart must be breaking to know you love me._

Swallowing, Marcus asked as amiably as he could, “Do you have a message from him?”

It was all there in the man’s eyes. Guern looked around the entrance hall and lowered his voice as if the many portraits had ears. “Might we speak in a more private location?”

“Of course,” Marcus choked.

After directing Guern into the newly decorated parlor, Esca hooked Marcus’ elbow to stay him. “What is happening, Marcus?”

“Nothing,” Marcus lied, having to swallow his beating heart again. Catching Esca’s eye, he admitted, “Only I believe this means Liathan has forgiven me.” Indeed, their friendship was based largely on pranks and revenge. Marcus could not have hoped to get out of trouble without some retribution. To have to trust and rely on one of those impassionate partners was a well-placed blow that made them totally even. “It is rather complicated—I shall explain later, if you care to know—but he means this as a peace offering. Oh, Cunoval. Isn’t it wonderful? Come let us hear this message.”

Geurn stood at the fire, warming his backside. Entering with Esca at his elbow, Marcus bade the physician to make himself comfortable. As they seated themselves on the new red sofas, the weary traveler began, “His highness prince Liathan wishes to extend his well wishes, and has paid me to travel this long way in order to monitor the progress and health of you and the child in this time.”

“Then you know the truth?” Marcus could not help but ask.

“I have been sworn to secrecy and have been warned that if I utter it to anyone outside this room, I will be hanged as a traitor.”

Esca’s eyebrows jumped, and Marcus beamed with pride to have a part in such important matters with one so powerful. “Fair enough. Then rest assured that we have spun a most convincing illusion here that the child is Lord Cunovals--with the exception of a single maid who helps us,” Marcus added as Cottia arrived with a tray that no one had thought to request. It was a mark of her exquisite training as well as her own desire to hear what was happening. Marcus saw the wink Esca dropped her as she took her time arranging the dishes.

Guern at once relaxed in her presence and extended his chilled hands towards the fire. “Excellent.”

“You have traveled a long way, I hope the weather was not against you every step of it,” Esca spoke with polite manners that would make any governess proud. They passed an easy few minutes discussing the weather and the detestable state of the roads. The doctor’s riding suit was spattered in mud and soaked on the shoulders. It was all in all a familiar sight in this house, though Esca, for once, was not wearing such an outfit, and by some coordination by the servants, he and Marcus matched today. Esca’s waist coat was the same sky blue as the embroidery on Marcus’ cuffs. He tugged on these cuffs now, feeling significantly less out of place with this monstrous fortunate man before him. Marcus commented on his happiness in the matter, only to be shocked by the answer,

“You remain alone in your specimen class, s’am. I am sadly not Fortunate,” Guern said regrettably. Marcus was thrown. All mid-fellows were meant to know the experience of birth—that was the entire point. They might as well have stayed with Dr. Watson if Marcus was to give birth with no experienced mother man in the room. What could Liathan have been thinking of? But oh yes, this was the retribution.

Grinning, Marcus looked to Esca, who broke up his expression of surprise and smiled a half-shadow of a smile, that beast of shyness in the face of strangers back and keeping Esca fairly silent. Marcus winked, silently promising his friend that this made perfect sense and that he would explain later. In light of the new information, Marcus reevaluated the hairy doctor as a platonic friend of the prince’s.

“I know it is strange,” the doctor said, “But I have focused my entire practice of medicine on the changing condition, as his highness knows.”

“Why?”

“My fortunate father is dear to me.”

“Bless his soul, you weren’t as big a baby as you are a man, were you?” Marcus asked, deciding that he liked this eccentric physician more now that he was not one of the prince’s lovely friends.

“Afraid I was,” Guern laughed. “And my sater no bigger than you, Your Lordship,” he said to Esca. He used the Latin for mother man, which sparked the back part of Marcus’ attention into wondering if he would not have his child do so, for he liked it better than the more common _summy_.

Guern was still speaking, “The birth of my youngest sister was a complicated delivery, sparking my undying interest in the entire subject, as you can imagine. But this one here,” he jabbed a finger at Marcus’ stomach. “Oh, he’ll be no problem at all. With your hips, s’am, I do not think you have anything to fear.”

A very pregnant lull fell as the three of them, plus Cottia, who was stoking the fire, considered that the entire royal line was made up of men no shorter than six feet in height, famously robust infants. The doctor noted Marcus’ rising panic and smiled kindly. “I’ll have you ready for whatever comes, don’t fear.” He sat back and perched his spectacles on his nose. “Now,” He looked up between them and asked, “How are things in the marital bed?”

Esca suddenly cleared a catch in his throat and Marcus answered, “Erm--I mean to say, we’ve entered into an old fashioned gentleman’s agreement; the marriage is only on paper.”

“Ah,” Guern frowned. “Then there is little we must discuss by way of protecting the child….How are you feeling in general, Fortunate Lord? Any aches or pains?”

Esca stirred, interrupting before Marcus could continue, “Well, I’ll leave the two of you to the more private examinations--I have business to attend to.”

With a bow of his head to the doctor, Esca went from the room with Cottia. Marcus answered the question by complaining that his ankles have taken to swelling. Guern informed him that he should stay off his feet. Unsatisfied with the solution, Marcus pouted for a moment before deciding to ask, “Guern, truthfully, have you ever had a patient of my constitution before?”

“No, I have not, truth be told. You are quite fascinating.”

“The fortunate condition happens quite commonly in men of my size,” he replied. “Sir Darwin writes of it and everything.”

“Yes. And Freud also hypothesizes on it in regards to the sociological developments of mother men depending on their physical stature--those who are like you, Frt. Cunoval, typically do not act on their gender as you have done. You must confess that you are a rare commodity in that you have allowed yourself to enter this condition despite the contradiction of your masculinity.”

Marcus smiled but kept his mouth shut. _It was by no conscious choice I gave up my image, doctor._

“Freud’s studies have proven the more feminine the mother man, the easier accepted he is,” Dr. Guern continued. “Thus propelling the practice of ladies installing the mother men into their circles as nothing more than one of them in trousers—this of course excluding the practice of certain fortunate fellows in passing as women entirely.”

Marcus took a deep breath. “Those fortunate men I can never understand. We are not meant to be one or the other, for we are simply the third gender.”

Dr. Guern frowned. “Yet you masqueraded as a man for over ten years. Does that not make you like them in that respect?”

“I did not deny my manhood or my motherhood. I simply did what I had to for a time in order to do as I wished.”

“Just as the dress-wearing mother men do as they must in order to do all that they wish without judgment!”

Comprehension washed over Marcus, and he looked at the little flower tucked next to the vest buttons rather than into the glaring man’s face. “Your laying-in father, does he wear a dress?”

“On occasion,” was the short answer.

“I did not mean to offend.” Marcus said sincerely. The frost in the air dissipated quickly, and once again, the hairy man smiled kindly. “Quite alright, s’am. The old sater is a feisty one and I’ve been raised to defend. I did not mean to be short with you.”

Marcus laughed, relieved. “I suppose we must also forgive all the ladies for making bosom friends of the fortunate gentlemen when they can. They are after the same rich husbands, after all, and must keep their enemies close.”

Dr. Guern laughed as well. “You are right there. I wonder how many of the fair ladies you scorned by not only removing yourself from their traps but taking Lord Esca as well.”

“And in such short notice, too,” Marcus agreed. “I don’t believe they had time to get used to my debut before they heard of my marriage! Now it has been two months since the wedding and still we receive letters from all over congratulating us on our fine match or my debut as if it has only just happened.”

Their laughter dwindled out naturally and Marcus continued, pensively, “I have narrowly avoided the scandal of an illegitimate child, but I am still the source of gossip. Society views the wedding as a scandalous affair covered with stories of a conditional debt on Esca’s part. They think we conceived out of wedlock in our fiery passions--both our reputations teeter on the edge.” This rumor—spun, no doubt by the hateful Miss Swan--was so close to the truth that Marcus could not help bringing it up again and again in his desperation to contradict it.

Dr. Guern’s smile was a knowing one. “Scandal is a matter of perspective, and Society likes to ignore the rules and power of love when it passes its judgments. But your and Lord Esca’s seemingly passionate affair has resulted in a most happy marriage so it matters not when this child will come squalling into the world. It can never be touched with scorn, for this love story is what we each hope for privately, even as the governess purses her lips and pretends to strive for propriety instead.”

Marcus thought that if only he had been able to marry Liathan instead, then it would be such a love story, indeed; like the Watson family for instance, happy but generally shunned from higher circles... At the thought, Marcus looked down and traced the elaborate thread on his sleeve. Given the choice, he thought that he would not trade this amiable-enough life with Esca for anything, even for the soul-quaking love he had grasped so briefly with the prince; for any life forged together under scandal would limit the child’s prospects, and Marcus’ own experience proved that sacrificing reputation in favor of personal happiness does not transfer one’s happiness to the child.

He had learned the hard way that a father’s selfishness could be the ruination of one’s humble dream.

They began to discuss the general changes that he was to expect, as well as the changes he was already experiencing. Marcus’ emotions were across the board and prone to abrupt changes, intensity being the only constant.  One moment he wanted to grapple and better someone in a fit of masculine supremacy and prove he was still a man, the next moment he wanted to be held and whispered to like a babe, doted on like a woman…

He was angered to the point of astonishing fury if his valet, Stephanos, handed him the wrong cuff links. He continued to sob at things as small as a dead mouse the stable cat left on the pathway to the carriage house. If Esca was looking at him for too long he either wanted to straddle the man and feel full again or he wanted to blacken one of those fierce, penetrating eyes.

Physically, Marcus had recently begun to suffer as well. Due to the growth of discreet mammary glands that would quickly fill with milk upon the baby’s arrival, his chest hair had fallen out and his nipples were grotesquely tender to the point of pain so that if one was bumped he half cried out in a whimper most unlike a gentleman.

His hormones had him thrice as sensitive as usual, so even Stephanos’ professional, deft hands straightening his jacket against his broad shoulders had Marcus gritting his teeth and attempting to contain his disturbing arousal.

In stark contrast to that, Marcus discovered that sometimes at night he suffered a repeat of his mortifying wedding night, and could not produce a reaction in himself, as if his sex truly was as damaged as rumors would have the public believe; Marcus knew that this was because of the great change his body was taking and tried not to feel emasculated. Here Dr. Guern touched upon the topic of impotency to which Marcus reminded the doctor that it was a celibate marriage.

“I understand that and only wish to warn you that a time will come when you will suffer the complete opposite of impotency, and by God will you wish you had a man then. It is perfectly common, even healthy, to feel such overwhelming needs and it is also common for doctors to prescribe even to frail patients regular release. Once every morning or night, whichever suits. It will greatly elevate stress. And, personally, as you are fit and strong, I do not see the harm in allowing it for the entire duration of pregnancy.”

“Oh,” Marcus laughed and added, “Good,” before the true weight of Guern’s warning sank in. He would have to speak to Esca about this approaching phase, to ensure the nobleman will be prepared to think logically for the both of them. After making sure Guern was settled in the house, Marcus went in search of his husband.

Esca was in the library, and suppressed a smile at hearing the approaching misery to come. “Thank you for the notification, s’am.”

“Let us look on the bright side of this,” Marcus said. He knew that the sigh that followed was the hundredth gusted within the hour, but he could not help it. Liathan’s forgiveness had filled him with contentment. “Liathan will most likely return to me before that happens, and you will not be tested.”

“Ah, yes,” the nobleman said flatly. “Wonderful.”

Marcus could not hear Esca’s annoyance, for he did not know the nobleman as well as that. It would take Marcus a few days of eager anticipation before accepting the possibility that the prince was not on his way to Brigantes Abbey. As the ex-solider grew frustrated by this, Esca could be heard whistling merrily each morning that transpired without a word from royalty.

|||

“Marcus, for heaven’s sake!” Harriet snapped one day the following week.

He stood with the woman in the street as a gaggle of overly giggly girls flocked away from them. The foot traffic was light this evening, as the air was thick with the promise of rain, and if Marcus did not pick up the pace then he would be caught in it before he made it to the house. His leg was paining him, and he was considering spending the evening in his uncle’s house.

Harriet’s unexpected scorn caused Marcus to jump. “What have I done _now_ , Mother?” he asked. They had been shopping in the town’s limited shops for half the hour, so there was no way he had forgotten his posture or to cross his ankles or any of the usual things that made his mother groan.

“My heart, if you cannot restrain yourself from flirting with everything in a corset, then you should perhaps stay indoors!”

Marcus was stopped dead in his tracks. “Flirting? I was merely speaking to them!”

“ _That_ was flirting, Marcus. Could you not _see_ how uncomfortable you were making us all? _You are not a soldier_! And you are married for _heaven’s sake_!”

As the topics of his conversation recurred to him, he began to understand the inappropriate witticisms and remarks he had made in regards to their beauty or cleverness—every word of it learned from Liathan.

Shame nearly crippled him in the street. “Why did you let it carry on so long?” he gritted through his teeth at his mother. “You stood there and let me make a fool of myself!”

With no defense, she sagged into the braces of her corset and pressed on her stomach “Please, Marcus, I am tired, and it is about to rain. Let us go inside.”

“My husband expects me home,” he said tightly. “Give my apologies to my uncle. Good evening, Harriet.”

The woman gasped at the sound of her name from her only son, spoken so coldly. She had never been Harriet to him, only Mother or perhaps Tatty as Capt. Aquila sometimes called her, but at the moment, with his ego still bleeding from the serious misstep in propriety, Marcus no longer felt the slightest connection to her. She might as well be Miss Swan, laying traps for him in which to hang.

Marcus clenched his jaw to staunch a thick ball of something wanting to rise in his throat, and he walked onward, for the edge of town and the dark green hill crowned with his home. He heard Harriet call after him but he ignored her.

After that he did not reply to any of his mother’s cards, notes, or letters and instead entered into formal confinement and spent his days at an occupation which turned the vast silence of the rooms into a commodity: reading.

He continued to devour everything by Darwin and those following his theory.

Sadly, the library was no longer his private refuge, as the doctor had adopted a chair in the most remote corner, where he read histories of the world. Remembering that this man was miles from his home and as socially awkward as himself and Esca, Marcus did not badger him to go out and see the village and instead left him alone by seeking solitude elsewhere in the house.

The first time Esca found Marcus reading outside of the library, he frowned with intrigue. Marcus had been discovered hiding in Esca’s study.

“What is it that you are reading?”

“Sir Charles Darwin. He’s made a scientific study of mother males in the animal kingdom.”

“Ah,” Esca said. He poked Marcus in the ribs to have him move to the left so that he may get into the desk drawers. Snorting lightly at the ticklish touch, Marcus scooted the desk chair over and continued to read. Esca did not ask him to leave, nor did he inquire after any further detail, clearly as interested in the topic as Marcus was in the horses with which every document on this desk was concerned.

|||

Two days later, Marcus bade Esca to enter his bed room, acutely aware that, medically, he was a little over due for some pressure release, though such a thing was certainly not going to happen while Esca was in the room. Blast these doctor’s orders.

“Good evening, Marcus, how was your day?” Esca asked conversationally as he slid under the covers. He had to ask; they had not seen each other since yesterday. Marcus had had breakfast in his room, then Esca had had tea with business associates and then had skipped dinner. Marcus had spent his time reading in the library and then taking down the old man’s stories from dictation; an enjoyable enough pass-time in confinement.

With the need for privacy ringing in his head, Marcus’ skin felt hypersensitive as he climbed into the bed, and he couldn’t help but notice that Esca’s shoulders were quite strong, despite his slender shape.

“Fine, dear,” Marcus said, using the term of endearment to remind himself of the arrangement. Just sleeping. He could put himself right in the morning, after Esca was gone. He put his thoughts to things that cooled him off. The last chapter he had read did the trick spectacularly, for he was reading a book that Guern had recommended. It was an account of giving birth written by a mother man, who left out not a single gory detail. Marcus had had to stop reading half-way through, in fact, for he was at the moment half-way convinced he had accidently starting reading a horror story, where the poor man actually gave birth to a monster.

“Glad to hear it.”

“How was yours?” Marcus thought to ask. They talked civilly for a moment about estate affairs before Esca turned out the lamp. In the sudden darkness, Esca shifted around before settling on his stomach in the position Marcus always found him in if he was lucky enough to catch the mean little man asleep and unguarded. But a moment later, he shifted again, never crossing a very tangible line down the center of the bed.

“Settle down, will you?” Marcus asked, amused. Esca sighed.

“Sorry.”

“You are nervous. Perhaps we should ignore the ruse tonight after all.”

“No. I am fine,” he said a little too quickly. Marcus grinned into the dark, and spoke honestly with the ease that only darkness could provide,

“It’s all right, Cunoval. I am restless too, a little.”

Esca stilled his shifting once again. “Truly?”

Marcus snickered lightly and confessed softly, “I remember your kisses, too. They are rather difficult to forget.”

“Oh,” fell out of Esca, and he was so still and silent on his side of the bed that Marcus knew he was not even breathing. All at once, he remembered Esca proclaiming that the kissing could carry on whether they were in love or not. He gulped and shivered. Oh how he wouldn’t mind the kissing starting back up.

“Good night, Marcus,” Esca said, shifting once again, to the very edge of the mattress, and deflating all hopes.

“Good night, Esca.”

||||

Having the valet dress Marcus became more humiliating than it would usually be when his body started to change shapes. The tight muscles of his abdomen still prevented too much of a bulge but his increase in eating had Stephanos taking his trousers out a little more in the waist every other week. While he was at it, Marcus requested that the aged mother-man remove the worst of the embroidery here or there.

The peacock plumage in his wardrobe dwindled by degrees, and the constant reminder that he was losing his heroic figure plagued him for a month or so, stealing his appetite and it was with great chagrin that he heeded the incessant urging from both Esca and Guern to eat his meals.

“You barely ate your dinner,” Esca reprimanded one night as Marcus climbed into the bed.

“Not hungry,” Marcus grunted as he made himself comfortable. He was not in a mood to discuss this. Not only had the valet let out his trousers _again_ , but Capt. Aquila had stopped in to see them for a few hours earlier and had agreed with the old man that Marcus looked glowing and _well fed_.

“Have you considered the baby?” Esca asked sharply.

“Forgive me,” Marcus blinked up at him with a grim expression, “but I think I know the needs of this child a great deal more than you.”

“It only worries me,” Esca’s face softened considerably, “Guern says allowing your appetite to slip away increases your risks in the pregnancy--“

Marcus sighed, waved a hand, “Do not worry about what Guern thinks.”

“He’s an expert on the matter and you are not!” Esca snapped. “You’ll do better to do as he says. You’re used to following orders. Why not treat it as if he is your commanding officer. When he says eat, then eat--“

“I am fat!” Marcus cried in a flare of white hot temper that severed his hold on his control. Instantly he wanted to take it back, rewrite time where he said no such thing. It was so… vain and… _feminine_ a thing to worry about. He wished dearly he had eaten his dinner instead of fretting over his waist line like a debutant.

The ringing silence was mortifying. Marcus turned in his pillows and blankets and faced away from Esca, pounded his pillow and attempted to convey that he wanted to move on and not discuss it.

The light went out and Esca wriggled, making himself comfortable. He broke the silence softly, “Good night.”

Marcus grunted a return and fell asleep. As usual, Esca was not present when he woke. But this time, there was a breakfast tray waiting for him and a note. _With child is not fat, it is a blessing_. _Please eat._

Scoffing, but smiling, Marcus crinkled the note. After realizing his silliness last night, he had every intention of scarfing down his meals if he wanted them or not, and he did not need to be told twice. Still, though, it was a lovely little note that brightened his morning and thus his entire day.

_|||_

_His leg hurt, and he missed his life before that damned ball burned its way through the muscle of his leg and spoiled his bone. He was frustrated with his new limitations, his new isolation from all that he knew. But Liathan was with him now, laughing and almost making him feel like he was not alone anymore._

_Perhaps it was the whiskey, perhaps it was the hopelessness of Marcus’s new life but he did not care what the consequences would be when he leaned heavily into his dear friend’s side, head on the prince’s collarbone and spoke with all the sincerity of his aching heart._

_“Sometimes I feel as if I am forgotten and rotting away as I lie here with nothing to do but remember the man I will never be again. You have made me smile for the first time in weeks; I thank you for that, Liathan, and for your friendship. You are most dear to me.”_

_Liathan made no reply but to put a palm to Marcus’ cheek, run his fingers lightly down the shell of Marcus’ ear. The invalided soldier did not contain the quake the caress sent through his strong frame and the prince smiled in triumph and did it again. Marcus turned into the touch, closing his eyes, letting his lips part for a sigh._

_“Yes?” Liathan asked._

_“Yes,” Marcus whispered_.

Marcus woke feeling tingles all over and hot weight in his groin. It was barely light outside and the solitude of his big bed pressed in promisingly. Marcus found himself thrilled, elated to have the time to sink back into the dreams, the sweet memories he could not allow himself to hold onto in the day. But he could lose himself in them now, before the breakfast in bed ruse he and Esca had arranged. Happy to have a medical excuse, he took himself in hand and closed his eyes, willed himself to believe he could feel Liathan’s touch.

He remembered Liathan’s kiss, the taste of his sighs, feel the heat of his sex filling him so solidly and heard his voice, _Marcus, oh, dearest--finally!_

It had been too long since Marcus had felt this acute pleasure coiling in his bones, this mounting cry, this rush of an exquisite death. His eyes were closed with vivid images of his lover’s blown pupils, flushed face, and broad shoulders.

He doubled his speed, half curling in on himself as he cried, choked words, “ _Liathan--yes, Liathan, my love!”_ Lost in need, he slipped a slickened finger down and pressed into himself, imagining royal digits.He cried out, quite beyond himself, and spilled and spilled and spilled.

He slumped into his pillows, panting. The high began to fade with his memories, and he returned to himself. Marcus opened his eyes, voicing one last sigh of his satisfaction, “Liathan.”

Esca stood in the doorway.

The nobleman, still in his nightshirt, had not knocked. But the moment Marcus met his eye--so fierce and penetrating--Esca turned and left the room without a word.

When Marcus finally had the nerve to leave his room and be seen by anyone, most especially Esca, he was informed that the young Lord Cunoval had business in the far end of the estate, which was vast enough to mean he would be gone for two or three days.

Marcus couldn’t say he was not relieved.


	10. A Second Chance

With a few days between the incident and themselves, Marcus and Esca were both able to act as if it had never happened. On the first day of Esca’s return from his sudden departure, the mail arrived with letters from Uncle Aquila and Harriet and no one else. Marcus was part way through his uncle’s penmanship which was as languid as his voice when Esca asked softly, “Why do you not write to him?”

Marcus looked up from his uncle’s words which asked that the whole incident with Tatty be forgiven and forgotten. He pushed the end of the biscuit he was chewing on into his cheek and spoke past it, though he knew better. “Write to whom, my dear?” The endearment came easily now, with no thought in it.

Esca gave him a pointed look that answered the question, but as they were alone in the room, he said no names, “He and I have been in correspondence since the engagement--naturally it was not until after the wedding that I had any idea he was more interested in me than I of him --but recently he informs me he’s heard nothing from you.”

Marcus nearly choked on the bread, but swallowed it down with juice as Esca said, “So I invited him to visit us—his own second in command now married to his cousin, there is no reason why he and I shouldn’t finally meet.”

“Why would you do such a thing?” the fruitful man asked, breathless with sudden anxiety.

Esca gave him another pointed look that proved he had indeed seen what he had seen and that Marcus had not somehow dreamt it up. The fortunate captain refused to blush and succeeded, though the palms of his hands paid the price for his nails biting into them.

“Why not?” Esca asked coolly with a shrug. He linked his fingers above his plate and he looked and looked and _looked_ , waiting.

“He is coming _here_?” Marcus thumped the table, fingers shaking, lips twitching in a wild smile. “To this house—he has agreed to it?” Esca gave a wordless nod, eyes locked on Marcus’ every move. The fortunate covered his mouth, “Oh—what a wonderful surprise!”

“Is it?”

“When will he arrive?”

“The day after next, I imagine.” Esca said with the corners of his mouth tilted upwards in a reluctant smile. Marcus suddenly felt like a spoilt child receiving his Christmas presents early. He stood, filled with too much energy to sit still. He had to prepare for the meeting. On his way past Esca, he paused and clapped the nobleman on the shoulder. “Thank you, Cunoval. You are a fine man!”

Esca hummed as he straightened himself from Marcus’ excited shake and smiled tightly after his retreating form.

|||||

At the distinct sound of a carriage below the window Marcus rushed over to look. With an internal swell to the heavens, he recognized Liathan’s footman—and then a ridiculously big hat adorning the head of an elegant lady at his side and Marcus plummeted back to earth. He groaned—he knew it would have been too good to be true—and leaned heavily on the windowpane, prayed aloud for strength and mercy from this nightmare.

Esca was at his elbow, watching the prince and his entourage assemble themselves after the long journey. “You say you love him,” he said with brows pushed together. “Yet this is your reaction to seeing him.”

“How can I be an awe-struck lover about his presence when he has brought his betrothed?” Marcus snapped.

Esca balked and took a second look out the window. “He has what?” the same confusion twisting Marcus’ gut wrote itself plainly across the nobleman’s face. “Marcus—I did not intend…” Esca shook his head, staring disbelieving at the carriage and the elegant lady that stepped out of it. “Why on _earth_ would he bring her?”

Before Marcus could make a reply, voices in the next room heralded the prince’s arrival as the Old Man eagerly greeted the royal guest with the perfect training of a soldier. Then,

“OH, YOUR HIGHNESS, YOU MUST MEET MY NEW SON! FRT. LORD MARCUS CUNOVAL! FETCH MARCUS! FETCH ME THE TWINK!”

Both he and Esca whirled, hearts pounding at the sudden obstacle before them. It was a jump neither were prepared to make, for with an unsuspecting wife here, they had to sell their act to one who knew the truth once again. The disaster of that Aquila family dinner pressed on them both.

“Dear God,” Marcus breathed, balling his shaking fists. The nurse stepped into the room and spotted the pair of them. She didn’t even speak, for she was aware that they had heard the request with their own ears. She curtsied and returned to the sitting room. Marcus gave Esca one nervous glance before putting steel in his spine and striding after the nurse.

Liathan was sitting most at home on the sofa in a posture Marcus had seen many times; the prince had one leg bent and resting across the other knee, both arms stretched along the back of the furniture. He could very well be in the barracks, not a guest in someone else’s home. In a seat across from him sat the elegant Lady of Geneva, the noblewoman intended for the prince since birth, and the truly blessed heart who would have Liathan in Marcus’ place. Old Cunoval sat in his wheel chair next to his nurse, and Guern stood propped against the back of her seat, conversing easily with royalty.

When Liathan saw Marcus enter, he smiled the same charming smile as ever and spoke across Guern. “Oh, there he is! How are you, my friend?”

“I cannot believe you are here,” Marcus choked lightly. Guern simply smiled, as familiar and forgiving of Liathan’s wandering attention as Marcus. Lady of Geneva looked interested for the first time and blinked at Marcus.

“WHAT?” the Old Man asked, leaning forward.

“The roads are dry this time of year!” Liathan returned easily but loudly—and Marcus would have elbowed him if he were in arm’s reach, for he knew the prince was too amused by the plagues of old age and would play games with the deaf man all evening.

At the display of Liathan’s less than gentlemanly humor, Esca turned and jumped his eyebrows at Marcus, looking rightly terrified, “Dry, indeed.”

|||

The autumn grass was cold and scratchy, and Marcus petted it as he stared into the middle distance. The secret guests of Brigantes Abbey were on the grand tour of the garden with its foliage in full autumn glory; reds and gold. The doctor had just opted to return indoors with the old man and the nurse, while Marcus had feigned leg trouble and planted himself here. Presently, Liathan broke away from the group and jogged over to join him. He stood with his shadow cast over Marcus, brilliantly silhouetted by the sun like the hero he was.

“How pretty you are sitting over here, Captain. Is that lace?”

Marcus touched the cravat at his neck, which was what he had considered a subtle, stylish layer of lace. His cheeks flared bright red. _Dear God, have I truly become so delicate?_ He felt ridiculous and resisted the urge to rip the neck cloth away.

Laughing, Liathan flopped into the grass in an obscenely un-princely manner, just to get a laugh from his unusually stoic friend. Marcus fought the inclination and won.

“Come, Marcus,” the prince said. “Do not be angry.”

“I am not.”

“Yes you are.”

“Well of course I am! You mock me so freely, but this is the life I must lead; these are the clothes I must wear. Do not be so unfeeling.”

Liathan drew in a deep breath, visibly disappointed by Marcus’ obstinate behavior. “I allowed myself to hope that the request of my presence meant that all hard feelings would be forever behind us.”

Blinking in the bright sun, Marcus fought to keep his throat from closing with emotion. “You have forgiven me my lies?”

The prince would not look at him, pretended instead to be greatly interested in the rooftops of the village below. “I have accepted that you had no other option.”

Heart thundering in his chest, Marcus felt a fine sweat begin to break out across his skin as if a he was on the verge of battle once again, frightened but secure at the prince’s right hand side. “I am sorry,” he whispered.

“For what?” Liathan asked, looking round at him in puzzlement.

“I should not have married him.”

“Do not think such things,” Liathan commanded. He drew up a knee on which to rest his elbow as he folded a piece of grass between finger and thumb.  “I thank God every day that this whole mess was so easily contained…. And anyway, Esca is the greatest of all my cousins, truly. He is kind and clever, and look at that face--he’ll make for a damn good opponent at cards; remind me to challenge him tonight after dinner...” he trailed off in thought and then added, “I wish I’d known him before today.”

“You like him?”

“Of course, he is strange but… proud. It does him credit. He is as small of a man as you are a large fortunate; there could be no better match for you.”

Confused as to how his lover could be so unmoved at the thought of another man bedding him, Marcus outright demanded, “Why are you here?”

“Why not?” the prince asked, all innocence, “Am I to just sit in my palace and wonder how my heir is being raised? This way I can be known to him as Uncle.”

“Esca knows—everything,” Marcus admitted, breathless.

“I gathered,” Liathan said lightly. “’Tis what I mean when I say he is splendid. How many men do you know who would orchestrate a love affair between his husband and someone else? Who would dutifully keep the unsuspecting wife entertained?”

Of course, Esca was at the moment, regaling the Lady of Geneva with some kind of animated story as the pair circled the trimmed trees of the garden, laughing. Never was Esca so animated for company unless it was a beautiful woman. Marcus’ heartbeat sped up, and he looked at his one and only lover. “Our marriage is not consummated—we pretend that it is, obviously; but in truth we live in a contract of chaste, mutual understanding. Our families are tied together for business only; we might each of us take a discreet lover one day. You are not yet married; it would not be a sin for us to continue as we were…”

Liathan smiled (bright and eager) and leaned in closer, not by much, but enough to make Marcus’ heart soar. “Liathan,” he sighed, closing the distance even more. He could feel Liathan’s breath on his lips, “I’ve missed you--“ His words cut off as their foreheads touched, each leaning into the other.

Suddenly, Liathan pulled away. He cleared his throat with a significant look at the others and then adjusted his position so that space was comfortably between them in the grass. Marcus likewise tried to compose himself. Of course such behavior would be inappropriate in direct sight of their spouses.

He climbed to his full height and brushed off his colorful clothes as he looked down at Liathan with an inviting smile, “I believe I have had enough fresh air. I shall be in the music room. Would you care to join me? Tis on the other side of the house, overlooking the brook…we will not be disturbed there…”

The prince cleared his throat again and gave Marcus a fleeting glance and absent flutter of hand that stood for an affirmative. Marcus had never seen his prince so flustered and out of sorts, and the display of nerves ignited tingles over the entirety of his body. He left Liathan sitting there with a bow and a wink from the old days, from when he had had to remove himself from the indelicate situation sure to progress between his best friend and one of his lovers. Only this time, the prince’s lover was _Marcus_ and not some unworthy imbecile—never again would Marcus be forced to smile and joke about an affair in which he was not himself a key player.

At the door, Marcus turned to see that Liathan was still sitting in the grass, operating at his most discreet. Confidant that it would be only a matter of formulating an excuse to slip away before the prince could follow, Marcus hurried to the rendezvous point. It was a vast room with a piano in one corner, a harp in the next, and what Marcus could only assume was a decorative horn mounted on the wall in between for he did not believe anyone of the Cunoval family could produce a single note out of it, or indeed any of the instruments. Not a note of music had been played in this room for over forty years, or so the rumors went, but nonetheless, it remained the music room and thus unused; virtually perfect for Marcus’ means.

At this time of day shadows shrouded each of the corners, for the light of the sky was hardly strong enough to penetrate the shadow of the house and fill the uncovered windows.

He rang the bell at once, frowning at the smallish settee—the only scrap of furniture in the whole room that would hold both of them unless Liathan had no objection to making use of the grand piano’s shining, flat surface…. Detecting the startling direction of his thoughts, Marcus snorted and shook his head. What madness this love did to him; obviously if things progressed beyond a certain point they would retire to a bedroom like civilized men…

Cottia arrived promptly after Marcus had rung for her. He gave her a nervous smile and made his request, “I have some personal matters to discuss with the Prince. It is vital that we are not interrupted or overheard.”

She curtsied, “I will ensure it, Fortunate Lord. Shall I bring up some tea and biscuits?”

“Yes, thank you.”

|||

Marcus had taken his weight from his leg in a chair by the window where he could see the chilled autumn air produce shivers in the discolored leaves of the shrubbery. Liathan was taking his time, no doubt detained by that woman and her endless speeches. He hoped that Esca could distract her again with another excursion about the garden soon, for it could not be lost on Esca that the two veterans needed to be alone for a time to properly discuss the weights of their hearts, to figure out what might be done to resurrect a semblance of their former bliss.

Cottia returned with the tea tray and Marcus, feeling guilty, decided to be plain with her.

“You spoke to Esca that night...”

She glanced up, grey eyes meeting his green and darting away, “Yes, m’ fortunate lord,” she said readily without need for further explanation. “Lord Esca rang for me to attend to his hand. Remember he slammed it in the stall door by mistake that morning rushing about to get home to you sooner?” And then she boldly winked.

Marcus smiled. Like Esca, she had a singular ability to make the most obvious lie sound like God’s honest truth. Marcus’ seizing guilt relaxed. She already knew and so there was no need then to find a delicate way to phrase it.

“Oh, yes,” he said, playing along and wondering if it was Liathan he heard approaching. After a moment, he decided it was only the spirits of the house bumping about, for Cottia knew this house better than he and would certainly vanish the moment she heard the prince arriving. Settling into the chair, he considered the illusion this woman helped perpetuate, and remembered now that Esca had described her as intensely loyal. “You do fine work here, Cottia. I do not believe I have thanked you for all that you do to keep our lives… unruffled.” His pause and choice of word prompted a wide and rather gorgeous smile across her features. She bowed with a properly humble return to the compliment.

“Esca says he has grown up with you,” Marcus said. He was interested to hear more of the story between her and his stand-offish husband. She nodded and folded her hands nervously, rocking to the sides of her shoes and back.

“You must have plenty of delightful stories to tell of his younger days,” he prodded gently.

A small smile pulled at her lips, but she smothered it. “Has he told you about the hilly-nilly-horse game we played together?”

“The _what_?” Marcus could not help the snort that warped the word. It wasn’t until the house keeper shot a bold, cool look that Marcus realized the sound was rather rude—a habit resurfaced in the company of his dear friend. He instantly schooled his face into one of repentance.

She smoothed her skirts, house keys jangling. “Just a silly game for young ones.”

“I would love to hear about it from you. A little slice of a simpler age, an honest time in this house…” With a glance around the room, Marcus was stunned by the sincerity of his own words, how much he truly did long for an end to the deceptions, a reprieve from the hollow façade of his life. “I would be forever grateful.”

Her coolness thawed, and a corner of her mouth twitched with understanding. “We both wanted to be horses, and the hill,” she made a vague gesture to the east wall as she took a seat next to him, “had in it the power to turn us into a horse for a day, but first we had to tumble head over heels three times down its slope without falling over. We would spend hours at it,” she laughed, “and the grass-stains and mud. My mother didn’t thank us for that!”

“Sounds as if you were the best of friends.”

She shrugged. “Kids at play. But we all grow up.”

“That’s terrible.” Marcus said, infinitely glad (as he would ever be) that he had discovered his best friend at a matured age, where the passage of years did nothing but to deepen the bond… until one day it ignited…He shifted in his chair and cleared his thoughts, returned attention to the conversation as she responded, pensively looking out of the window.

“No, s’am, it’s not like that,” she said, “The difference in stations… it wasn’t right for us to play too much. Maybe if he had turned out to be lovely like we all thought he would...“ she trailed off and shrugged. “But then you wouldn’t be here. And we all like you.”

Her words surprised Marcus, and their sincerity rendered him speechless. He knew he was whispered about downstairs, but he had never considered a positive opinion circulating. “But _why_ do you like me?” he burst out. “I feel as if I have been nothing but a bad omen on this house since I first arrived here.... I’m the twink from the regiment—ah!” he hissed when her stinging slap landed on his free hand atop the armrest.

She gave him a look that was so entirely a nursemaid reprimanding foul language, that Marcus felt properly reprimanded for a word he had heard in this house more times than he had ever heard in service. Then again, _he_ wasn’t senile and dying.

But he was still a lord of this house, and he considered for a moment punishing her for being out of place. She was not after all _his_ nursemaid.

But he could not bring himself to claim the authority. Perhaps because he knew she was the only servant who knew he had no such right. With another apologetic grimace, he spoke the rest of his mind, “I feel as if I am a side show freak in the circus of Society. The only thing that protects me from the true onslaught of mockery is my position, which I only have because I’ve an inheritance and...” He glanced at the clock, wondering if Liathan had maybe gotten lost trying to find this shut-off room. He propped himself on an elbow with a morose sigh that this should be his life now, forever scheming for one half hour of privacy with the love of his life. Cottia responded to his sigh with a look of sympathy to which he bumped his shoulders. “Everyone knows it was only debt that brought me here,” he said delicately, trusting that she understood the other part of it as well.

She nodded and leaned to cover his stinging hand with her slender one. “Perhaps if you see it from our side? To us, you are a hero, a true and honest one—not just a war hero either. You have saved us all from destitution, and you make Esca so happy. We all care for him as a son or a brother down stairs, so it warms our hearts that he’s found you.”

He leveled a pleading look at her. “But it is all a lie,” he whispered, just as the unmistakable sounds of boots approaching made them both stand up. Cottia’s mouth quirked perfectly sideways and her green eyes sparkled, “Not all of it. He is the best friend either of us could ask for.”

“Well, yes, that is true.” Marcus conceded with a frown just as the door gusted open. Esca took two strides in and one stride back out again before his gaze had swept the room in its entirety and spotted them. “Ah— _there_ you are! He said it was it was the ballroom and I knew that… could not be…correct” as Esca spoke his dark grey eyes bounced between Marcus and the house keeper sitting in a chair as if off duty, her slender hand on Marcus’ arm. The nobleman’s brow crumpled as his sentence slowed. Then, chin going forward, he asked, “What is going on in this room?”

“Never you mind,” Cottia said with disquieting provocation in her voice, but a smile on her lips. “What have you done with our honored guests? You haven’t left them with your father have you?”

Esca’s eyes sparked with the amusement that stretched his face into the liveliest expression Marcus had yet seen on the man. “I did, and they will bear it a moment longer, for I must know first what it was you two were discussing just now, with such open ease.”

Too startled to speak, Marcus only watched as the servant lifted petite shoulders. “Oh, it was nothing of consequence.”

Sensing that he was now being mercilessly teased, Esca looked to Marcus for relief from it, “What was it, Marcus, truly?”

Marcus had the urge to sooth the man’s worry—for he knew Esca’s moods could drop very low about himself—but catching the fiery woman’s eye, Marcus decided rashly to have a little fun (might as well since Liathan had lost his nerve to appear) and gave his own heavy shrug. “We had discussed very little before you barged in. The weather, mostly,” he did nothing to hide his secretive wink to her. She giggled. Esca looked pained,

“You are both cruel. Whatever she has confided in you is either a tremendous lie or an outrageous exaggeration.”

“What is it that you fear she has confided to me, Cunoval? Might you have some great life secret of your own that I do not know?”

“Of course I do not.”

“Which is of course what you would say if you _did_ ,” Marcus reminded him. Esca puffed with indignation. Cottia released Marcus’ arm to take Esca’s instead,

“Do not worry, Esca. I know what you fear I told him and it is not that.”

“What? No, there is no _fear_ —tell him whatever you wish---rather—no. _Marcus_ ,” Esca leveled his name at Marcus hard as if to crush out the last bumbling sentence. “I have no secrets, and _you_ ,” he rounded on the housekeeper specifically, a proper terror of brotherly scorn, “stop this insufferable behavior. It is very unbecoming.”

Laughing, Marcus had to extend some mercy at long last. He thumped the shorter man on the back. “Oh, forgive us. We are only teasing, of course. Cottia was simply explaining to me the nature of your friendship. It is moving that the pair of you have remained close, despite the class difference and obvious challenges.”

“Nothing you are not familiar with yourself, I should imagine, Captain,” she said, tilting her chin up at him. “Or has your wealth greatly benefitted your friendship with the prince?”

A short laugh hopped out of Marcus from such a direct question, and he did not miss the reproachful glare Esca shot her for being so forward. He answered easily, “My financial security is the root of it. Had I not had the funds to follow him anywhere, then we should not have become so close. And you are correct in saying that, were I any poorer, such a companionship would have been grossly out of place, and I might have heard more about my common-place birth than I have heard in the past. Is it not a tiring business, maintaining an acquaintance above one’s station, Cottia?”

“Oh, very tiring, indeed,” she said with a smile.

“Don’t you find that everyone has their own advice and warnings?”

Her face lit up and she bounced onto her toes, “Yes! Oh, if I had a penny for every time I was accused of social climbing, I’d be as rich as you lot and have no need of it!”

“They just can’t understand that our reward is the mere _company_ of the person,” Marcus said to her with a bit of fire that he had not unleashed in quite some time. It was not often he spoke to someone who understood his position like this, “Sometimes we must like a person regardless, be they noble or homeless.”

Esca’s jaw slackened and he gave the woman a significant look full of amusement and deeper meaning before looking back at his fortunate husband, “Well said, Marcus. That is nearly verbatim what Cottia herself said to me last winter when our destitution came to light.”

“I told him that he would have my support whether he was my master or a footman working under me for the next lord.”

Marcus barked with laughter. “Esca as a footman! My, what an aberrant image!”

The three of them chortled for a moment until Esca seemed to remember that he was on orders from the crown. He sobered and looked to the house keeper. “Yes, well. I am made glad to see that the pair of you are so amiable together; that shall make for a pleasant home indeed. Cottia, could you see to the staff and make sure the prince is being served properly?”

She curtsied to them both and hurried off. Esca looked around the dim room, his eye falling on the rickety sette and then the piano. “I shudder to think of royalty setting foot into this dismal room for any reason, much less….” He stopped talking and shook his head. “That was a bold move, Marcus, and not too cleverly hid. Your condition excuses your sudden absence, but the prince has no reasons to disappear in the middle of the day.”

Marcus sighed. “Clearly, as the whole scheme has failed. And to clarify, my intentions were to speak intimately only, in a place where our body language might not be interpreted by on-lookers.”

Esca nodded, swallowing dryly and not really looking at Marcus. “No matter. The prince evidently felt it was not worth the risk, and I must agree with him. Lady Geneva is not brainless, Marcus. You will have to extend a little more effort not to offend her; none of this is, after all, her fault.”

“Yes,” Marcus sighed, closing his eyes against the thinly veiled reprimand. He did not give a damn about that woman, but to say as much would hardly gain him any points in Esca’s eyes, and if any of Marcus’ hopes were to come to fruit then he needed his legal husband on his side. “You are absolutely correct. I suppose I must wait until tonight, after she is asleep.”

“And then you will—“ the question stopped so shortly that Marcus knew it had not been voluntary. Esca swallowed loudly and would not meet his eye, giving Marcus a fair idea of what the nobleman had nearly asked.

Marcus huffed, admitting freely, “Well—yes, hopefully. I do miss him immensely ….” At another stab of guilt, he thumped Esca again. “Why don’t you find someone, Cunoval? I suppose it would be too much to hope that you and Lenore could get on well together…”

Esca made a scathing noise in his throat and Marcus waved him off, “No, I haven’t forgotten your indifference to women; I was only saying…I do not know what I am saying. My mind is cluttered with the sudden possibilities of the future, and I realize now that I have yet to thank you, Esca, for bringing him back to me. I cannot thank you enough for such a kindness.”

He smiled tightly. “You need not thank me yet. I am unconvinced that this was _at all_ a good idea.”

“Of course it is,” Marcus insisted with a light scoff, resisting Esca’s implication that something disastrous lurked on the horizon. “Now let us not keep them waiting a moment longer.”

Marcus marched out of the room, mind furiously at work on strategy. The prince would stay on at Brigantes Abbey for a week before his presence was required elsewhere or it became too widely known who the mysterious visitor was—whichever came first. With proper tactics, Marcus would be able to coax the truth out of his dear friend in that time. He would save Liathan from his own cowardice—lend him strength to defy an age-old understanding with that woman and face something greater than death: love and a child made of it.


	11. The Stunning Truth

Marcus did not have to make a single excuse for his brief absence. As Esca had said, it was understood by all to be something concerning his condition and therefore unfit for genial conversation. In the sun drenched parlor, Marcus systematically cleared the plate of biscuits that Cottia had transferred from the music room. To his dry tongue they were tasteless and reminded him only that he had a mission to fulfill—he could not in good conscious let Liathan squander their only opportunity at happiness out of misplaced apprehension. In consequence of his turbid thoughts, he was rather quiet, leaving it to the shy lord of the house or the doctor to forward conversation whenever the prince or his lady ran out of things to talk about it.

Naturally, the only thing Esca could speak of with any ease was the estate business and its many horses. His intelligence and authority on the subject made Marcus proud to have turned his entire fortune irrevocably to the trade. For the space of one tea biscuit, Marcus felt pleased to be the fortunate lord of so noble an estate. At this moment, the fields rolling outside the windows were thundering with hooves as the herd moved together across the expanse of grass, a dappled mass of raw earthly power that lifted something inside even Liathan’s usual unmovable chest, for Marcus could see that the scene induced feeling for the man in the way he breathed.

“How I love horses,” Lady Geneva said wistfully, starring out of the window overlooking the amber-lined fields where they ran. She gasped prettily, “Oh, a colt! How charming!”

Esca’s smile was genuine. “She will eat oats from your hand. Would you care to meet her face to face?”

“Would I? Oh how marvelous!”

Guern matched the lady’s enthusiasm loyally so that, quite suddenly, Marcus found himself alone with the prince. In the sudden silence that followed, Marcus praised God for Esca’s kind and clever way of allowing him privacy at last.

Before Marcus could summon the beginning words of his speech, his old friend was circling the room with a familiar grin of mischief on his face.

“What are you doing?” Marcus asked when the prince pulled open a small drawer in a table and rifled through it. His tone was not reproachful, for he knew this game. Many times over the years they had entertained themselves at uneventful gatherings by snooping in the secret parts of the host’s house.

“I suppose you have already done this,” Laithan said with a glance over his shoulder as he rounded the desk in the corner. “Have you found anything of great interest?”

“Liathan, you mustn’t,” Marcus said, uneasy at the prospect of the prince snooping in Esca’s things. It was all good fun in a stranger’s house but this was Marcus’ home now, and Esca was not a stranger. The things in that desk were Esca’s belongings and it would not do for any of it to be rearranged or misplaced—such a thing could cause business errors, not to mention alerting Esca to the fact that Marcus had snooped.

Laughing and ignoring Marcus’ pleas for decorum, Liathan opened and closed all of the drawers. “I am determined to find something of interest. Hello, what is this?” he lifted the large leather portfolio and opened it. Marcus could not see what was inside of it, but the prince’s impish grin dropped and he turned a few pages with interest.

“What is that?” Marcus asked. When he had circled the desk, he found that his assumptions were correct; the papers were not business related at all.

“That is you,” Liathan said, as if Marcus could not identify his own image in a drawing. The portfolio was full of sketches from a skilled artist. The pages Liathan turned over with rapidity were stolen moments of Marcus—he did not need the date at the bottom of each page to know that Esca had survived the boredom of their honeymoon by sketching whilst Marcus slept.

He examined his own sleeping face captured so realistically by Esca’s hand, the drape of his body across the bed, the rumple of his nightshirt, hair, and the quilts around him portraying the comfort and tranquility of the moment. Marcus was captivated. These far exceeded the hand-made book of art he had once discovered. Those pictures had been correct and well executed, but they lacked the character and quality these exhibited. These newer attempts, though nothing more than idle drawings to fill quiet hours, bespoke the maturity and emotion of the hand that had drawn them, capturing something a younger Esca had failed to create from his imagination.

“Good God,” Liathan huffed when he’d overturned another sheet. It was another moment of the honeymoon, though not one that Marcus remembered. He lay on his stomach; sleeping, no doubt, for he’d pulled up one knee in his customary sleeping position, only his nightshirt had worked its way up his body so that the hitch of his leg revealed the apple curve of his arse, the crevice of his cheeks peeking from the hemline and something else, darker and hairy, peeked from his undercarriage.

Marcus snatched the portfolio out of the prince’s hand with a flare of offense. “These are _private_ ,” he insisted, heart racing at the thought that Esca had sat for who knew how long staring at Marcus in such an indelicate position, “between my husband and I.”

Liathan’s brown eyes were hard, brows low, long face stoic, “You promised me you hadn’t consummated the marriage, yet I find these?”

Marcus gulped, only now realizing what it looked like. “I told you—we pretend.” _Esca pretends; he has drawn whole volumes of imaginary lovers_ , Marcus wanted to quip, but his sense of duty prevented the words from oozing like acid off his tongue. Esca Cunoval was a good man, allowed one vice without the prince of England laughing about it for all of eternity behind his back. And anyway, this picture could not be imagined for high on the left thigh there was that freckle not even Marcus had known about until Liathan had kissed it. Esca had seen with his own eyes this soft, compelling scene and had copied it for posterity, those grey eyes eagerly studying each line and speck.

The heat of the sunny room began to press in on Marcus, who tugged at his cravat and cleared his throat. Liathan swelled, eyes growing colder. “Yes, I’ve seen you go to _great lengths_ as you pretend,” he said, darkly, cool eyes searching Marcus’ entire face as if seeing a stranger. “You have proven that there exists no boundary you will not cross to get what you want.”

“For heaven’s sake, Liathan, you are fabricating things! Here, look at the damned picture if you must. In it is nothing I have not shown the whole militia a hundred times over at swimming holes. That does not mean I have betrayed my love for you. Here, take it--” Marcus pushed the portfolio at his prince.

“No thank you; I have no interest in _that_ aspect of your marriage.”

Marcus laughed, nearly breathless with the realization, “You are jealous.”

“Absurd,” Liathan returned quickly.

“No,” Marcus laughed again from happiness, “you are, dearest—look at you, you’ve started grinding your teeth—“

“Do not call me that,” the prince choked the demand under his breath and glanced around as if worried the others had returned to hear. Marcus quelled his euphoric laughter and wanted to clap with glee. “Oh, darling, there is nothing to be jealous about. Despite the nature of that picture, I am still _yours_ —“ he reached for his lover, but Laithan backed away.

“Marcus, no, honestly! It cannot be. Why do you think I never followed you to that music room? I… I could never carry on with you now that you are Changing.”

“Why ever not? Do you not recall the joy we shared as you initiated my change?”

Liathan first grinned shyly but he grimaced, “That night compared to having intercourse with a shapely, fleshy Captain Aquila would be strikingly different matters, Marcus.”

“Do not try to convince me that my breasts, when they appear, will deter you. I know you better than that.”

“But they will.”

“Your betrothed has breasts, Liathan. They are no different on a fruitful man, I assure you.”

“Yes, you are right, when the fruitful man in question is—well, _normal._ However,” This time his laugh had a twinge of sincerity to it—a hint of Marcus’ beloved and playful friend who never feared to phrase his thoughts shockingly, “You must admit that yours is hardly a figure which compliments the image of bouncing flesh!”

Marcus was unmoved, “How could you want me one moment and then find me so repulsive the next?”

“I know not, but it is how I feel.”

“How preposterous,” Marcus snorted.

Liathan groaned and rubbed his brow, pacing a stretch of floor away and back again. “All the secrets you confided in me, when you were, as you say, as good as telling me the truth about your gender, think for a moment how it all sounded to my ears. There I was listening to my friend, a man by all accounts, telling me he felt he never fit in, that he lacked manhood in his father’s eyes, and that if only the rules of society would change he would be freed to live unashamed. Do you not see how one might misinterpret these confessions?”

“Speak your meaning more directly, Liathan. We haven’t the time for riddles.”

“I believed you were confessing your… your… _interest_ , as a man, in _other men_. Do you see? Society forces such men to either be exceedingly discreet or forever unhappy. When you began to make your little confessions to me during intimate evenings, I thought you were attempting to tell me you wanted me.

“It was an immense relief to know that my… shall we say _unseemly_ attraction to you was returned. Imagine my elation! But, Marcus, in all of your subtle confessions, it was difficult to determine whether you intended to _take_ or _be taken_. Only one will suffice for me--I am particular on that end—and so I set about to discover which it would be. But any attempts I made to approach the subject discreetly had you blushing and changing the subject. And I, being unable to pose the question in any way but forthrightly (which I was sure would frighten you off) was forced, for years, to withhold until the moment I could ascertain that we were compatible in our desires. And yes, then I happily--even eagerly--took what was offered. I will not deny my passion, my almost delirious joy, as we joined in flesh. And, though I have forgiven you, I am still quiet furious that you should have ruined it by revealing your deceit.”

“I had no choice but to tell you—I am expecting. You would have noticed eventually, surely.”

“And it never occurred to you to take precautions against conception? There are herbs, Marcus. And plenty of little tricks besides.”

“I _had_ a trick, Liathan. I had an ironclad, foolproof method to ensure I never conceived and it was to ABSTAIN. But my love for you—words did not suffice. I had to _show_ you and I confess all thoughts of logical precautions escaped me in my ecstasy.”

The prince said nothing and returned to his seat. Marcus waited, breaths shallow, for something to happen. Suddenly the door opened forcibly as it always did under Esca’s hand, and then the room was filled with the gayety of a happy woman once again.

“She was gorgeous, darling,” Lady Lenore informed Liathan, touching his shoulder with a gloved hand. “So young and free out there in the grass.”

Liathan smiled tightly, playing with his tea in a distracted sort of way that Marcus knew from their years together meant something dark weighed on his thoughts. Marcus looked for the doctor but soon learned that he had cleverly extracted himself from the venture with the excuse of tending to the old man and could now not be found. It was plain on Esca’s features as he related these facts that he deeply envied the doctor’s freedom and then Lady Lenore relayed the whole account of meeting the baby horse. Marcus pretended to listen as he let the heavy portfolio in his hands drop open before him on the desk.

The first several pictures were of horses and trees— _decoys_ , Marcus could not help but think with a smile as he flipped past them. Further in lay the truly spectacular pieces. Marcus was not Esca’s only subject (he found one or two portraits of the old man as well as an unrecognizable woman whom Marcus could only assume to be the late Lady Alice, for she looked different in each sketch as if Esca’s memory had trouble providing the exact shape of her nose) but Marcus’ own hulking form filled the majority of the pages, most of them quite modest.

He breathed more easily at last; he had feared there were more like that rather shocking one—and perhaps worse, for Esca proved to have a vivid imagination. Marcus rediscovered the depiction of him sleeping half exposed and flipped past it quickly. Had he slept so exposed during those dreadfully boring days of the honeymoon? There existed no further proof, for Esca’s sketches resumed a sense of propriety after that. Marcus lingered on some undated doodles, created from the engagement—Marcus had stayed clear of that much lace since then with a passion, yet Esca had drawn him in a way that made the frill look less ridiculous than it had ever felt. Marcus studied each individual stroke of the pencil, trying to ascertain how it had been done.

Here at the back of the portfolio seemed to be where Esca stuffed his unfavored efforts, for many were abandoned half complete and others lacked the focus of an inspired artist. The newest piece brought a smile to his face. Esca had even titled this one with elegant lettering that looked unpracticed. _Fortunate Lessons_ the page said over a series of sloppy, quick drawings that, if nothing else, captured the essence of the day still stark in Marcus’ memory. It was nearly a story, beginning with his unease and ending with the single most detailed scratching of the entire book.

In the bottom left corner of the page, Marcus sat in the fortunate posture unconsciously whilst writing with a smile on his face. His clothing had changed, indicating a change of date, and Marcus frowned, attempting to recall practicing his posture while copying the old man’s stories. He could not, and huffed at the thought that Esca had captured a moment of simple, unintended grace from him.

Had Liathan ever seen this in him? Had Marcus ever displayed this kind of mindless softness during their friendship? He must not have done, considering the great shock his secret had caused. But search as he did through the art book, Marcus saw example after example of fruitful grace within himself and he marveled at how much the Change had already taken him over. No wonder Liathan looked at him so strangely.

As Lady Lenore’s story drew to a close, Liathan patted her hand. “Perhaps Lord Esca can draw you a momento,” he said with his broadest, emptiest smile. Esca’s eyes widened and he took half a step back as the prince elaborated, “Marcus was just praising your skill.”

With a sharp glance at Marcus, who flipped the book closed innocently, Esca narrowed his eyes and then told the Lady. “I would be happy to supply you with any portrait you desire.”

|||

When the company shortly thereafter adjourned for the dining room and a promising dinner, Esca held Marcus back. “You saw my drawings.”

“Your talent has greatly improved from your fortunate years, Cunoval.”

Esca looked and looked at him and said, “Are you not offended by… some of them?”

Marcus thought of the one which exposed to him a good deal more of his own skin than he usually saw. “One was a rather big shock, I admit.”

The dip in his shoulders told Marcus that he’d touched on just the thing Esca wanted to speak of and dreaded at the same time. “It was an accident to find you that way. But it was so _striking_ … I promise I drew it quickly and then covered you and left. I--“ Esca’s quick words stopped and he spoke with more measured control, eyes on the floor. “I thought… there could be no harm in it. We are to spend our lives together, after all, and perhaps such a picture would aid our charade.” He lifted his eyes to Marcus and they bounced away. He gave a curt nod. “I shall destroy it. There can be no excuse for crossing such a boundary. I apologize--“

Laughing Marcus lifted a hand, “You forget I am not an untouched treasure fresh from under my mother’s wing. I have swum and bathed with the men of my regiment and believe me they would have seen things far more bold than a peek at my arse and testicals.”

Esca burst out with a rather fruitful sounding kind of gasp, beamed up at Marcus, “Your attitude towards my transgression lifts a burden from my mind. Thank you, Marcus.”

Marcus scowled suddenly, “but I do have one offense against those drawings, Cunoval. They have achieved their purpose and have convinced—of all people-- _Liathan_ that I have given myself to you and thus he retreats further from me. That is most cumbersome to my plans.”

Looking rather more smug than apologetic, Esca asked, grey eyes narrowed and jaw slightly forward, “And what plans would those be?”

“To…” Marcus trailed off, unwilling to put it into words how he longed to be joined as one with Liathan once more. He interrupted himself with an exasperated sigh. “You know very well what I want as you were so free to enter my rooms some days ago without knocking to _witness_ my desires!”

Marcus must have believed as he was declaring this that he would somehow shock his husband, but Esca only lifted his eyebrows, “Marcus, I retract my earlier statement that you gave yourself in blind ignorance, believing lust to be love. I can see that you do adore him as a fortunate _should_ adore the father of his child… However, I do not see that he adores you in return.”

“He does, Cunoval. Trust me. He only needs reassurance that I am _still_ the man he loved, despite my changing. Captain Marcus Aquila was not as much of an illusion as he believes. ”

Silence met this statement and in it was the finality of the fortunate man’s resolve to recover the love lost to him. It was there in Liathan. He knew it. Marcus was about to join the others but Esca spoke quickly to stay his departure.

“Tread lightly, Marcus,” the nobleman advised, “I know from experience how disappointing it is to believe Marcus Aquila to be one thing, the perfect answer to all of one’s prayers, only to discover that he is something utterly different, someone capable of the unthinkable.” He looked and _looked_ at Marcus as he spoke. His grey gaze bore into him until the fortunate man broke and looked away with a slither of shame and Esca continued, “You made a fool of me for selfish reasons--let me finish, please. I do understand your motives, and I accept them; you have my complete forgiveness. But it remains that I was made the fool and that continues to pain me. Getting to know the real Marcus Aquila, I can honestly say that you make me laugh and that you can be so beautiful I might as well cut my heart out and feel less pain, yet there are moments _still_ wherein I find it hard to like you.”

The blunt honesty of this stung more than Marcus was prepared to bear. For some time now Marcus had actually started to believe that he and Esca were becoming friends. However, friendship was far off if Esca could scarcely find him even _likable_. Marcus did not like the consequences of his mistakes so plainly put before him.

If Esca cared that he was forcing these hard truths onto someone unwilling to face them, he did not show it and continued, “Consider also that this is after having known you for only fourteen days before the curtain lifted. Consider the length of time you made _him_ the fool and be prepared for the idea that he may never feel the same way about you again.”

The sobriety with which this was delivered made Marcus forego answering it with his usual blind statement of trust. Instead, he allowed the possibility--as unthinkable as it was--and nodded. _Father in Heaven, if I have wounded his pride beyond recovering, give me a miracle and let our love heal the wound!_

Shortly after this prayer, as both he and his husband finally joined their royal guests in the dining room, Marcus remembered to give thanks for Esca. _Please do not think I am not grateful that you chose him to save what is left of my name; Esca is a good man, truly, and he deserves better than me. Please find him someone onto whom he can lavish all the love he can manage in that tiny little frame._

Esca was smirking when he asked a footman to step aside and pulled Marcus’ chair out for him, “My dear?”

Marcus took the seat with polite thanks.

|||

“I am afraid there is little to do on short notice in Brigantes,” Marcus lamented to his guests at dinner as they discussed modes of entertainment, having retired for the evening into the parlor to enjoy a fire and keep the autumn chill at bay. “As you wish to pass through these parts undetected by the people, we are limited to the grounds anyway, so even our humble shops are out of the question.”

“Good company is all that is needed for a good time,” Lady Lenore said genially with a smile at them all, though it widened and lingered longest on Esca, who grinned back around his drink. Marcus scrunched his napkin in his lap and shot a covert look at Liathan in hopes that the prince would rein in the woman before she embarrassed them all with these flirtations to a married man. Her intentions were clear, she was determined to wring jealousy out of her royal fiancé.

Esca, out of determined loyalty to Marcus and perhaps as a way to atone for being responsible for this entire visit, preened under her attention and played along most convincingly. Liathan’s jaw was tightening by degrees and in consequence he spoke less and less.

For a few more minutes, the lady prattled on, displaying if nothing else, a knack for conversation, and then it was decided with the utmost enthusiasm that it was time for cards. Once again, Esca devised a way for Marcus to have a moment of privacy with the prince, sensing that the pair remained so quiet for a delicate reason.

Holding Liathan back from entering the next room, Marcus hastily dragged the prince through an adjacent door where they would not be overheard or interrupted by accident.

“Liathan, please, we must discuss that night.”

The prince’s shoulders fell. “Must we? I believe everything about it has been said. Now let us play some cards--”

“Don’t try to change the subject,” Marcus said. “Do not run from your feelings.”

“I have never run from anything in my life!” Liathan dragged a hand down his face. “But you may well force me away with this endeavor of yours! I beg you my friend, end this mission at once! What transpired in the past is over and it will be no more. The illusion has shattered and cold reality reigns. We are not meant to be.”

“Liathan, do you attempt to deny that you love me?”

The prince looked strained, and _cornered_. After a long pause, he took a stance and said plainly, “I did love, Marcus. I loved with a kind of madness that frightened me. However,” he swiftly moved away from Marcus who had taken several steps towards him, “I see now the man I loved was a ghost, a figment of deceit and misdirection.”

“But I am still the person you know; I am still Marcus Flavius Aquila, you’re devoted friend who—whose touch you confessed made you feel more alive than you have ever felt in the whole of your life. That, surely, does not change merely because you suddenly know me as a man capable of giving birth, a man that you are able to take as your own until death parts us. Should not my gender be a _blessing_ for our love, as opposed to a reason to break it?”

“Marcus,” the pain in Liathan’s expression was laced in his voice, “When you were a man you were the perfect man. Of course I loved you.” –here Marcus lost his breath and water sprang to his eyes and he stepped closer, but Liathan stepped away, “But _loved_ is the word I use, Marcus. I loved a _man_. But he was an illusion. You are fruitful, and being fruitful, well, I am sorry to say it, but I must be plain—as a fruitful gentleman, Marcus, you are _far_ from perfect.”

Rendered breathless by that, Marcus sat back a little as if a few more inches of space would help his lungs to take in the air he needed for life.

“It was your perfection as a man that prompted me to make love to you that night—you yourself can attest to my greed; I will have the best of all things and I believed you to be the best among men. I craved you for that very reason. But, alas, you are not even among the category of men. You are…”

“I am among the hopeless dregs at the bottom of the misfit barrel of the fruitful?”

Liathan laughed, “That is one way to put it. I do not mean to be cruel, but Marcus—have you ever heard of a fortunate man over six feet tall, strong as an ox, who has fired muskets and wrestled dangerous enemies to the ground? For Christ’s Sake, I once witnessed you _forcibly_ _drown_ a man in a stream! That is most ghastly behavior in a mother man. Far from alluring.”

“That man was trying with all his facilities to kill me!” Marcus bellowed, “What will you have had me do differently?” Liathan sighed, looking away as if exhausted with this argument. Marcus would did not stop there, spurred on as he was by desperation, "What will you have me do to bring you back to me, Liathan? I shall do it! I would do anything, anything at all--what would you have me do?!"

“I would have you be the man I loved!” Liathan shouted, and his dark eyes were shining with unshed tears.

“I am he!”

“You are not!” Liathan cried, “You are a liar and you are a freak!”

Marcus stood very, very still as the reply dispersed through the room like rancid smoke. Marcus’ eyes stung as if there really was a scratchy cloud in the room. Liathan, at least, began to look ashamed but he seemed to decide that he would not retract the statement. He lifted his brown gaze from the rug to Marcus’ eye and held it. There was a strange challenge in it, something that seemed to ask Marcus to somehow prove that he was not a perpetual shock to anyone he met, being so large and pregnant at the same time.

Curiously, Marcus realized that he felt calm. It was almost as if he had stepped away from the body that turned on him these days so freely and suddenly, and he could watch as the prince’s words cleanly severed the ties that used to bind them together.

It barely even hurt, or maybe it did, but Marcus was quickly getting angry, so he felt less of it. He relied on etiquette to end this conversation. “Thank you, Your Highness, for some honesty at last. So this is how you feel about the true me, is it? I am an abomination simply because I do not match the string of fruitful lovers you have had in the past?”

“Marcus,” Liathan looked like he might smile as he clarified, “they were never fruitful. I had to encourage the assumption that they were lovely, but no…those discrete lovers I took in the past had always been the best and strongest of men.”

Shocked beyond speech, Marcus could only stare at the man he thought he knew. The prince stood strong, but after a stretch of roaring silence had deafened them, he fidgeted with a light gasp and shook his head, “I knew you would not understand…”

“No,” Marcus choked but cleared his throat loudly, blinking back stinging water in his eyes. “In light of this matter, I do not believe you will wish to stay the night after all, in which case I wish you a safe journey. You will receive notice when Lord Esca has an heir. Good evening....”

Liathan stood bewildered by Marcus’ sudden cold shell.

“This visit was a mistake, and as you will have no use of me,” Marcus said plainly, “I will ask you to leave my house as soon as you can devise an excuse.”

Wordlessly—for perhaps the first time in his life—the prince strode past him to the door and pulled it open. Crouched beyond it, both Esca and Lady Lenore scrambled to formulate an air of innocence and gayety to match the evening before this devastating revelation, but their futile attempts fizzled out as quickly as a wet fuse.

In the resulting awkward lull, Marcus sank off his weak legs into the nearest chair and the prince stood straighter. “Order the carriage,” he commanded shortly of Esca, who jumped and sent Marcus a worried look before scampering off. The lady met the prince’s eye and lifted her chin, extending a hand. Marcus watched through his eyelashes as Liathan laced his fingers with hers and squeezed. She smiled, and Liathan frowned, but with a gentle tug to his arm, she managed somehow to make the prince smile before they stepped away together.

The exchange was altogether alien and intensely painful to witness, for such an understanding at last reconciled in Marcus’ mind that the prince _would_ marry her, after all these years of his philandering around Europe, because no one—not even Marcus himself—knew the real prince as she did.

Marcus gulped air and thought he might be sick.

Within the hour, with no explanation but for their attitudes of urgency, the prince and his lady ordered up their carriages and departed with swiftly acting servants. Guern had been summoned as if expected to depart with them, and with a show of stubbornness refused to abandon his patient, even if that meant working for free.

Esca rewarded the man’s loyalty with an instant pledge to pay whatever had been promised. Hissing a final goodbye to them all, the prince stomped from the house, and Guern, yawning as if falling out of favor with the prince was nothing new, retired to his room.

The moment the hustle and bustle of the horses was out of earshot, Esca addressed the question of his presence listening at the door. “I must apologize—but it was her idea and I was helpless against the temptation—“

“Then you heard it all?” Marcus asked, finding that he was relieved instead of furious, for now he would not have to find the strength to repeat any of it as he sought a confidant. He drew the deepest breath his restricted lungs would allow, feeling sharp pains splinter from the center of his chest. Words bled out of him, “Can you believe it? He, a man, prefers _men_ above all else. I never suspected."

Esca lifted his shoulders, hesitant to offer his opinion. “It is as the prince said, one must be thoroughly discreet.”

Marcus looked sideways at his husband before sighing, “Ah, yes. I have forgotten what you revealed to me during our brief courtship. You prefer men as well,” the words were bitter and dark.

“That is not true,” Esca returned, “I have only ever preferred the strength of a man—and, yes, it must be allowed that for some time I believed myself to belong to the obscure group—but then you appeared.” Esca gave a tight, but glittering smile up at Marcus, who looked away, weary to the bone of this entire ordeal.

“You know my obsession with the changing condition, and it has skewered your perception of the prince’s case. He and I are not the same for I hold your opinion on the matter: you are a miracle and he should kneel before God in thanks that you can give him children. But regardless of his oversight, I do not think you should be so cruel about the prince’s persuasion. God makes no mistakes; he has created each of us the way we are for a purpose—where are you going?”

Marcus was already hastening up the stairs with no other interest but to be alone. Esca’s voice followed him up with concern. “Oh dear--are you well?”

“I am only tired,” Marcus choked over the rail. Then he disappeared into his room.

|||

With the best of his efforts, Marcus remained composed for the rest of the evening, and only after the distant chimes of the midnight hour did his resolve to be strong crack and crumble. With his pillows stacked, he buried screams of agony. The acute pain of this heartbreak was unlike any he had felt in his entire life combined.

It was worse than the day Liathan first cast him off—for now Marcus saw that it was not some sense of duty to his lifelong betrothed that had him act so, but the almost instantaneous rift which had opened between them the moment Marcus revealed his secret. It must have been a clean break for the prince. Despite having loved so fiercely, Liathan’s love died the moment Marcus’ carefully constructed outside shell crumbled like a chalk doll to reveal something else entirely inside, some unlovable freak.

It was suffocating. Marcus felt ripped to pieces and scattered to the winds. It was worse even than the day his father chose another family (standing by his mistress like Esca’s definition of an honorable man) and leaving a twelve year old boy to fist fight anyone who commented on it until everyone at school knew not to mention it—worse even than any of the subsequent birthday miseries when Father forgot to write—combined.

Marcus _hated_ the prince. He truly despised the man, but it hurt to do so. For he even hated the part of the child that was Liathan. It made Marcus ill to hate the child, but he did. He hated that its father was a man who would call him freak. Marcus did not hear the door open, or feel someone climb into the bed. He was so lost in his pain and misery that he did not know he was not alone until a hand pulled his face from the darkness of the pillows. Marcus started so violently that he got snot and tears everywhere.

It was Esca.

“No,” Marcus said, desperately trying to clean his face, embarrassed by the amount of slime. He hid his face again. “No, go away!”

“Shhh,” Esca said, pulling his face back out of the pillows and to his chest. Marcus was too weakened to fight the pull and found himself held against his husband. Marcus sniffed loudly and shuddered and more tears drained out of his eyes onto the nobleman’s warm, soft shirt.

Esca hushed him again and even stroked his hair. It felt so nice that Marcus shuddered again as the force of his cry retracted by noticeable degrees. Marcus had never cried like this in his life, he had no idea if it was normal.

“H-he...he hates me,” Marcus whispered wetly. More tears flowed and his eyes stung and squinted tightly in protest. “He never really wanted me—not _me_. This who-ole time I tho-ught he took fruitful lovers but he never did—he h-hates the lovely kind. He thinks we a-are weak a-and ridiculous!”

Esca breathed out very slowly, and Marcus could feel how tense his body got. “He is wrong.”

“I feel like such an imbecile—how can I not have known it? It’s so obvious—“

“Shh,” Esca said again, and his hand returned to stroking the back of his head. Marcus closed his eyes to stem the flow of tears. He shook some more, but it was less and less as Marcus surrendered to the soothing effect of the embrace. It felt safe to do so. Esca, after all, was the type to sketch fortunate men and marry them, not secretly loath their entire nature. In that regard, a less wounding friendship might exist.

“ _You_ —could--tell. You knew--” Marcus accused jerkily.

“No. I didn’t know that. I could only tell he didn’t love you as you deserve, that is all,” Esca said softly, so near Marcus’ ear that it tickled. As if aware of the little torture, and in apology for it, he kissed the spot lightly to sooth the bother. “Your stint in the militia has influenced you. You don’t know what a wonderful creation you are. How beautiful you are.”

Marcus gulped and closed his eyes. Perhaps it was true. He had spent the better part of his life denying the gentler side of his nature in order to fit in with his comrades, turning a blind eye on other laying-in fellows for fear of being sniffed out by one of his own kind; encouraging the jokes about men in pretty clothes that had so stung him days ago. It was not until after he had become pregnant that he even began to make a real study of his true nature through the scholars.

“I wish I had never joined the regiment.” Marcus said. “I wish I had never met the prince.” He wished life could have been that alternate version, where Uncle and Old Cunoval never separated, and Marcus had had Esca’s friendship from the beginning. With such influence, he could have been persuaded to act on his gender earlier.

He would have never felt so used and ruined and abnormal as he did at this moment—he would have never performed the same act that ruined his own family so many years ago. He would have never seen the look on his mother’s face when he told her that he carried the child of a good-as-married man.

 _“Actually, my son, it is not_ you _I am concerned about,” she had snapped. Then with a far off look in her eyes, she had grabbed her chest and fanned herself. “What his poor wife will feel when she hears!”_

It struck Marcus now, how his mother had seen all sides even then. Perhaps that was why he had concealed the father’s identity, least she find obvious flaws in his character; for if anyone could have sniffed them out sooner, it would have been Marcus’ mother. Capt. Aquila affectionately called her the hog of Society for her knack of unearthing priceless truffles of information.

 _...I do commend you for proving the apple falls not far from the tree!_ Capt. Aquila’s voice still scorned Marcus from the day he had revealed his shame to them. It twisted like a knife through Marcus’ belly and he sobbed again. “I would not--have brought more shame to my f-family. D-do you know the story?”

Esca tried not to answer.

“Have you heard the shame of Aquila?” Marcus asked again.

“I have heard but a whisper here and there. I believe I understand.” Esca said softly.

“My father--left--my mother and me--to wed his mistress--she carried his son. One better than me--as--it turns out--not fruitful--beautiful wife--“

“Shh, enough. He sounds very boring.”

Marcus laughed again, but in directly behind the turn of emotion was a stronger wave of despair. He wailed into Esca’s shoulder for a moment before he could get a handle on himself again.

Hiccoughing, he continued, “When Grandfather disowned him--I inherited--but--I was too young. Uncle offered us shelter--Mother and I--and he m-managed my fortune--until I reached my majority.”

Marcus sniffed loudly. Thinking of Capt. Aquila’s kindness and gentle presence through his life greatly soothed Marcus, and he was able to get control of himself at last. He sniffed again, but his lip trembled as he said, “Uncle raised me as his heir. He never once spoke to me about my father until showing his disappointment that I should be so like him after all.”

Marcus’s thoughts turned to the Lady of Geneva. She was always so formal, but Marcus knew just how wretched she must have felt for knowing her intended kept lovers, perhaps by now even knew someone else was giving him a child. She had to be quietly withering away beneath that proper exterior of control.

That kind of woman had raised Marcus. And it was that kind of woman he had helped create again in the Lady of Geneva. A vicious, ugly cycle. “This mess could have been avoided had I not joined the regiment, pretending it was Uncle I wanted to make proud, when my true intention was to earn back my father’s love and acceptance; which I did. He died believing I was a perfect soldier—but since I debuted publically, I have not heard a word from my brother or his mother. I have lost everything--my family, my honor, my freedom, my lover--”

Marcus sniffed again and shuddered. He let loose another quiet little wail of anguish. This was the first time in his life that Marcus had spoken of his father’s actions, but the lesser pain of reliving it was a nice relief from this new heartbreak.

“Now, now,” Esca said gently. He shifted beneath Marcus so that they were both a little more comfortable. Marcus was now reclined fully and Esca was his body-sized pillow.  “Let us wish his dear wife gives him the heir he needs so we never have to see him again.”

Marcus nodded and sniffed. Must he always be chosen over someone else?

With such a desolate thought running circles in his head, Marcus eventually fell into a fitful sleep, keeping Esca up well into the night with his unconscious twitches, sniffs, and cries for a dead father that had hated his true nature as much as Liathan did.

|||

The next morning, Marcus was exhausted. Waking was the detached sort of event that came from sleeping but not resting. One moment Marcus was fighting his way through a nightmare, and next he was awake, and there was no linking event between the two acts. He went from battlefield to Esca’s arms like one might go from room to room.

Confused, Marcus sat up, and his head spun. The jolt of the bed woke Esca, who snorted and then blinked a few times, then looked all around. “You slept,” he announced, like it was news. He yawned and then nodded. “Good.”

“I...” Marcus’ voice needed warming up. He cleared his throat with a hum and tried again. “What are you doing here?” It was not their usual night to share covers.

Esca had sat up to stretch with his feet on the ground, and he turned to look at Marcus with that old unwavering _stare_. Marcus quelled under it because he recalled the reason they had fallen asleep together right as he asked the question. Embarrassment swamped him so forcefully that he fell back onto the mattress and attempted to curl into nothing beneath the blankets. “I wish you had not seen me like that.”

Esca’s hand was warm on his back through the sheets. “You didn’t need to be alone in that. I couldn’t listen to it through the wall.”

Marcus tried to curl and sink more at the knowledge that he had been heard throughout the house.

“Then I suppose I must....thank you,” he said with an attempt at civility and manners.

“You are welcome,” Esca said sincerely. “Let us start putting the whole thing in the past.”

“Oh, what will Stephanos think?” Marcus asked, terrified, when his eye fell on his valet’s door. Esca was prepared and waved a hand, whispered, “They will all learn that it was just a mood swing. We’ll have to think of something that it could have been over...”

Marcus huffed and shrugged, and whispered back. “Any manner of ridiculous things will be believed...but let us stick a little closer to the truth. We can say I was in a mood over my father, brought on by a sly reply the prince made in regards to the black mark on my name.”

Esca nodded. “Blame the prince, I like that.... “ A grin tugged at the corners of Marcus’ mouth. Esca eyed him up and down. “Are you okay now, Marcus? For a time there I thought...”

“Oh,” Marcus waved it aside, mortified. “I believe a mood swing did occur in the midst of it, or it shouldn’t have been so... forceful....”

Esca looked, and _looked_ , and then he almost smiled then nodded, “Then let us ring for breakfast.”

Over a very filling meal, Marcus began to feel light. Not light headed, just lighter, like a large piece was missing. With a start, he realized it was because he was no longer mired in a bad situation, no longer trapped in an impossible relationship; his prayers answered at last. Marcus had been set free from his attachment to the prince. He was back to half of a whole...

What a nasty, unforeseen result. Answered prayers were meant to feel joyful, were they not? What kind of heavenly father granted wishes when the outcome was this— _void_?

Marcus felt small and empty and fragile. He could stomach no more breakfast, but pretended to nibble on the toast to keep Esca from insisting he eat. Despondently, Marcus picked up his latest book. It was fascinating and quickly distracted him from the chasm he felt inside himself.

He was reading of the comical occurrence of male-mother sea-horses.

It seemed the sea-creature did not turn over his eggs to the father as the females did, resulting in frequent battles over the eggs that did not always end happily. In the particular case the author chose to share, thankfully, the sea-horses ended up sharing.

“What are you reading?” Esca asked, sensing Marcus’ humor with the text.

Marcus closed the book on his finger to show the title. He saw Esca’s eyes glaze over momentarily as Marcus began to explain. Esca shook his head in disinterest, but Marcus quickly had all his attention—though he knew not if it was an attempt on Esca’s part to be polite, or if it was because at that moment Marcus finally got to the _horse_ part of sea-horse. Marcus laughed as he said, “I got your attention with that one.”

Esca blushed and shrugged. “So you did... You must be an expert on the animal kingdom by now,” he said conversationally. Marcus shrugged humbly. “Perhaps... It comforts me to read such things.”

“Do you feel so alone in your class?”

Alone. Marcus’ heart hammered, echoing through the hole Liathan had left. Without looking up into what he knew was a stare, Marcus nodded. “They say it happens to men of my stature all the time, and I once believed that, having spotted one or two of Liathan’s muscled partners over the years, but now I have been corrected on that assumption, and can find no account of it anywhere. Not even in the animal kingdom.”

“That just means you are unique. What is wrong with that?”

Marcus shrugged and went back to reading; maybe the sciences could fill the hollow place. “It is lonely.”

Esca focused on finishing his breakfast, but before polishing off the plate, he turned to Marcus once again. “Forgive me for mentioning it, Marcus, but did you really forcibly drown a man?”

The memory of how Esca knew about this punched Marcus in the gut harder than the actual memory of the killing, but he swallowed his food without choking. “… I did.”

Esca rolled onto his side, propped on an elbow, “May I hear the story?”

The choice of topic for conversation pleased Marcus well enough—it would be a great deal more comfortable to relay this story than to discuss Liathan or last night’s hysterics. In fact, it was precisely due to his pitiful sobs that Marcus was happy to dwell on this momentous facet of manhood that he’d achieved. It would, perhaps, regain him what dignity he had lost as he wailed like an infant stung by a nasty bee. He told Esca where and when, and described the scenery and the political situation. And then he began by describing the first moment he saw the man coming at him with determination to slaughter. Now, even seven years later, the very thought of it put chills in Marcus’ skin and he stopped speaking.

“Was it frightening?” Esca asked kindly, astutely.

“It was hell. Absolute hell. When it was over and I… I saw his face slackened beneath the pull of the stream’s water… I was sick and then I could not sleep for three days. It is quite different from shooting someone, you see. Somehow a musket and ball is easier to disconnect, to blissfully ignore your hand in the brutal end of a life but… that man’s death in the water. My hands were literally involved. And not just my hands but all the strength in my body—for I had to put my weight on him to stop him thrashing about. I--I straddled him to do it. I had never straddled a man before. It made it…”

“Intimate,” Esca finished with a moue of disgust. “Small wonder that you were sick afterwards. I feel a turn in my gut even now.”

Ashamed, Marcus hid his face, “Ghastly behavior for one of the lovely kind, isn’t it?”

Esca put the backs of his fingers to Marcus’ cheek, “It is courageous behavior, and I would even go so far as to say that it is, in no small way, an _impressive_ feat. I doubt he wanted to die any more than you did and he would have been fighting tooth and nail yet you prevailed. That is…” breathless, Esca’s lips twitch up in a grin, “That is most _extraordinary_ behavior in the lovely kind, Marcus, no matter what the prince might say. A magnificent fruitful man such as you is the _answer_ for men like us, and if Liathan cannot see that then he is ever the fool for letting you go.”

Marcus watched the petite man stuff his mouth with the last of the toast, feeling as if all the sense in the world had drained out overnight. Was Esca serious or only attempting to appear the better man? The nobleman was not shy in announcing that the typical fruitful gentleman bored him to tears, and Marcus had only succeeded in trapping him in this marriage due to his ardent interest in taller men, but the notion that Esca was sincere alarmed Marcus more greatly than he was prepared for.

It was suddenly clear to the ex-soldier that men like Esca were few and far between—for many liked strength and superior size, but most were fortunate and fewer were men—how small a percentage of those men were like Liathan, with the idea that child bearing diminished that strength and size? And how many were as open minded as Esca?

Suddenly the vast old world seemed small and empty to Marcus but for the strange little nobleman next him.


	12. The Very Important Demolishment of Some Outlandish Rumors

Several days later, Marcus woke up to find himself curled around Esca, the smaller-framed man trapped in his big arms beneath sheets softened with warmth. Guern’s prescription to have release every morning had been put aside in favor of sharing through the night with Esca again, as Marcus was in no shape to spend long hours of darkness alone with this vast new emptiness ringing inside his chest. (Though the young Lord’s presence in Marcus’ bed made it seem as if the doctor’s orders were being followed by the letter.)

He blushed to find himself wrapped so tightly around his friend, for they had fallen asleep on their own sides of the bed. Marcus released Esca before he woke to find them in such an attitude. Not that he suspected Esca would mind at all. Marcus had sometimes wriggled around too much in the night, restless, forcing Esca to press against him and pin him with one arm, slurring with a yawn, “Dear, do stop shifting about before you drive me mad.”

But even then, Esca had released him before waking. Marcus wondered if Esca’s restlessness had forced him to still the smaller man or if Marcus had simply cuddled in some subconscious need to staunch the loneliness he felt in the dark. Pondering this, Marcus yawned hugely, jaw clicking beneath his ears, and he attempted to make himself comfortable back on his side of the bed, where it was a little colder. The dawn was still weak, and he tried to return to his slumber.

Instead, Marcus lay staring into himself and that numb emptiness that had been the space filled by idle daydreams of the prince for twelve years.

To have Liathan’s confession of love was supposed to satisfy him—it had been the single thing he had yearned for these many years—and yet, Marcus could scarcely think about it now without regret. He finally understood the great error of his ways. He had deliberately shaped himself into Liathan’s ideal of perfection; of course the prince loved him most ardently. But that was not Marcus Aquila.

There was no Marcus Aquila.

Inhaling with a shudder, Marcus turned onto his side, but there was no escaping this brutal truth. He had spent his entire life acting in direct counter-part to what he wanted, simply to please the wants of others, and for no personal gain--for what was the reward in the end? A career accomplished out of lies would always fail. Friends made from lies would always vanish. Love built on lies would always leave strong hearts broken and bleeding. What a fool he had been to believe his lies would never see the light of day. How naive, idiotic, and selfish.

With no Marcus Aquila, there could be no one to love. Who knew him well enough to make such a claim? Not a soul on earth.

Marcus pressed a palm along the gentle curve of his stomach and allowed the hope that the child would love him, at the very least. If he began now, then perhaps he could provide an honest parent for the innocent life he carried, and his days of recklessness would be over. He could begin anew.

_“How are you feeling, Marcus?” Esca had asked the second morning after the prince’s visit. Marcus had cried again that night, not as forcibly as the first night, but not as quietly as he would have liked either. Esca had stayed again, offering kind words and asking questions to divert his mind from the misery. They had passed the darkest hours of the night speaking of everything from the exciting events of Marcus’ last safari in Africa to Esca’s eldest brother, the cad of Brigantes._

_“My heart does not throb as wretchedly as before,” Marcus had confessed. “While it was a shock to learn that he no longer loved me, the greatest blow was that the blame rests entirely on my shoulders. I hurt him, Cunoval, more deeply than I knew I could. When I think back on our life together, the moments we shared—“ Marcus’ voice had caught, and he had skipped the rest to make his point, “I fear in the end he loved me more than I loved him, for despite the affection I held for him, I did not trust him enough to let him know the truth. I claimed to love him and yet lied to him every single day. I lied so that he would love me. I stole his heart, and then I broke it.”_

_“You never intended to break it. Your intentions were innocent---hopelessly naive, but innocent. You must work on forgiving yourself, my dear.”_

_Marcus had inhaled deeply and sat up. “I shall be able to only if I endeavor to be a better man from this day onward, which brings to light a matter of grave importance.”_

_“Pray tell?”_

_“You and I.”_

_“Us?”_

_“I will not let a repeat of my friendship with Liathan occur. We are to be wed for the rest of our lives and I hope that we will be friends always.”_

_“We shall be, Marcus, what is this? You act as if my friendship will come at a price. You have it freely, Marcus. I know I have been harsh to you on the subject, but the truth is, I am growing to like you more and more every day.”_

_“Precisely,” Marcus had responded promptly. “You must stop yourself from growing any more attached—not to me, never attach yourself to me.”_

_Esca’s eyes had glittered with horror. “Never? Now please, how ridiculous—“_

_“No, listen, if you would,” Marcus had sounded so insistent that the nobleman had allowed him to speak. Looking away and bracing himself for the hardest speech of his life, Marcus began, “I know not who I am, Cunoval. Without the prince, I am little more than a scared boy still looking for his father. All that I have become, all that I have done with my life thus far has been crafted to please others without deference to what it was I might have wanted in the deepest reaches of my own heart. I mean to say that I do not know how to stop. I fear I will adopt every manner and opinion you would wish of me. I fear I will capture your heart as I had the prince’s and cause far greater damage with it.”_

_“I see.”_

_“I understand that we cannot stop presenting our illusion of happiness—all children need a happy home as you had, and I fully intend to give my child all that I was deprived of by my father’s careless ways. But in private like this, Cunoval, we must exercise caution. Do not call me dear so carelessly—the one we are able to lie most convincingly to is ourselves. Trust that, for I should know. I had myself convinced since the age of twelve and three quarters that I wanted to be a soldier when in truth I hated it more than I ever loved it. The only thing I loved about my career was the weekends on leave and the friend I had to share it with. In short, Cunoval, do not believe a single thing you hear me say or do that might be overly agreeable.”_

_“My, my….I will only say that if Cottia had heard that speech then she would have a great deal to say about your self-confidence in the matter of wooing men.”_

_Marcus shyly met Esca’s eye and they laughed, Marcus burying his burning face. Esca was the first to grow serious again. “As it is, I have known since our wedding day, Marcus, that you have a singular ability to make others like you for better or worse. Furthermore, I shall continue to call you dear, for it has apparently become such a habit I do not hear it. I was rather surprised to learn that I have called you that today. But, yes, all right, if it will take the look of terror out of your eyes, I will attempt to cut it out while in private, though I promise you it does nothing to convince myself of falsehoods—whilst you easily tricked yourself into believing a life of fighting and travel was glorious, I never could convince myself to stop desiring the changed shape even as I shared the conviction that I, too, would be fruitful.”_

_“That explains even more how you can be so kind about the prince. I am ashamed to know that my initial reaction was not so understanding.”_

_“You are not perfect, Marcus,” Esca had said with a shrug, forgetting (or perhaps not caring) that imperfection was the breaking point of the love between him and the prince. Esca spoke of perfection as if it was as unobtainable as the stars, and yet Marcus had lived for nearly ten years believing himself to own the title. How arrogant and pretentious of him—that would change. There with the tears of his heartbreak sticky on his face, Marcus decided to begin again._

Images of the future had begun to torment Marcus in quiet hours like this. The child would be a spitting image of Liathan, Marcus just knew it. Then how could he love such a vivid reminder of the biggest mistake of his life? He would forever be forced to think of his carelessness, of the pain he has cause not just in the prince but in his own mother and uncle and even this quiet nobleman beside him now, whose only aspiration in life was to wed a good person and be good in the eyes of God.

As his mind turned that way, Marcus opened his eyes to see, but in dimmest light of dawn could barely make out even a profile of the man. Marcus sighed again. It was no small wonder that Esca found it difficult to even like him—it was, these days, a struggle they shared. Esca certainly put up with a lot out of Marcus; his only reward a cold dowry, the responsibility of another man’s child, and a life of hollow smiles….

After drifting back to sleep for a few more hours, Marcus managed to wake before Esca once again and in the light of a new day stole a moment or two studying that face in a state of serenity and softness which his practiced mean attitudes robbed from him. The man’s ears brought a grin to Marcus’ face faster when they were jutting from wayward tufts of that dark bronze hair. This morning, the nobleman had a crop of scruff along his jaw, coarse hair which Marcus wanted to feel prickle on his palm…

This kind of alarming notion tormented him as frequently as the face of his unborn child. To be whole again ( _filled_ ) and loved was all that he yearned for, but from this latest blunder, he had learned a great deal. He now recognized the need to be loved for his true self—and furthermore, he could never allow the great disservice of an illusion, however pretty, on this matter. Better to be miserable friends together, than idiotic fools in a marriage built on falsehoods spun for the sake of sweet mornings.

Happily, most shared mornings, Marcus was not tempted when he woke, for Esca was almost always already awake and reading the paper with breakfast smelling deliciously on a tray in his lap. “Morning, dear,” he would say, handing over a hardboiled egg, which Marcus couldn’t seem to get enough of in his strange cravings.

“Morning, dear,” Marcus usually echoed as he took the egg and flopped onto his back to bite into it. Many a morning like this, Esca would continue absently handing over bits of food so that Marcus could eat a whole meal without raising his head once from the pillow, and Esca never took his eyes from the paper.

One morning, Marcus woke to the rustle of newspaper and grunted, turned over to glare up at his dear husband. “Must you be so loud?” Marcus asked. He had had a hard time falling asleep the night before. The progress of his pregnancy had rendered him unable to sleep in any of his usual positions and his back had ached the whole night through. This early hour was something like torture.

“I was not aware I was reading out loud,” Esca snorted in amusement, eyes still on the article.

“The rustling of the paper!” Marcus groaned, waving a hand. He dropped an arm over his face, pressed on his eyes. His head was splitting.

“Are you alright?” Esca asked, putting down his paper, voice laced with concern. “Perhaps I should ring for Guern.”

“No, no,” Marcus threw his arms back to his side and looked up at Esca pitifully, “I’m just suddenly very uncomfortable in my body. Aching all over.” It was his chest mostly. It had never been so tender, making it impossible to rest even on his side.

At the mention of his body, Esca looked down at him and colored slightly. Then his cool fingers nimbly twitched Marcus’ loose shirt collar up and tugged on the strings. Marcus jolted, having realized that his night shirt was open, revealing his nipples. But not just any nipples; _breasts_ , two very distinct soft squishy lumps on his chest; a chest that had been rock hard the whole of his life was now as feminine as it got.

Though Esca had already closed the shirt for him, Marcus fisted the neck closed some more, shamed.

“Perfectly natural,” Esca murmured. Marcus could _hear_ the blush in the words, but he couldn’t bring himself to look up and see for himself. How embarrassing, to lie in bed for so long exposed to the whole room without realizing. This was that damned picture from the honeymoon all over again. Marcus silently thanked God that Esca had not had time to draw this one for the sake of maintaining their lies.

At length, he glanced shyly up at Esca and saw his cheeks were pink.

There was absolutely nothing in the nobleman that suggested he found the loss of Marcus’ strength disconcerting or revolting or even mildly amusing… In fact, he looked… quite _flustered_. He avoided Marcus’s eye and turned to reach for the breakfast on the bedside table, “Your egg, Marcus?”

“Yes, please,” Marcus replied cautiously. Esca handed it over, still not meeting his eye and then with perhaps too much focus, popped out his crisp newspaper and resumed reading. Marcus wasn’t even finished with the egg before Esca folded up the inked paper and promptly got out of bed with excuses about work to do.

Marcus wasn’t fooled, for he remembered the books of art that Esca had spent his youth sketching from pure imagination. To be so diverted by breasts on a man… It was slightly disturbing to Marcus. Even though he was fruitful, he had just always considered the changed male body as something that was to be dealt with until it was over; not something that was to be… _enjoyed_.

A blush warmed Marcus’ face and he found he would rather feign having drifted off back to sleep rather than look at Esca for parting words as the man left the room.

|||

The butler stepped into the dining room with the morning post.

Marcus took the card from the silver platter with a murmur of thanks and discovered it was an invitation from Frtnt. Sherlock Watson, to join him and some friends for tea. Many such invitations arrived regularly, as many feared leaving the fortunate lord out of guest lists, despite his condition, obligating Marcus to write weekly his elegant excuses about confinement.

Marcus had not spoken to Sherlock Watson since the day he had thrown him out of the tea room, though frequent remarks from Miss Swan about how abnormal the fortunate was had left Marcus with the desire to get to know the mother man a little more just to spite her. And his confinement was beginning to test his patience, proving once again that his spirit simply could not abide solitude and isolation for any great length of time. Marcus wished to accept the invitation, despite his condition.

“Cunoval, look at this,” he said, drawing Esca’s attention to the note. “I’ve been invited to the Watson’s for tea. Might I go?”

Esca looked surprised to be asked permission and struggled for an immediate answer. “I see no reason that you should not.”

Marcus grinned at him and smoothed his shirt against the ever growing bulge. “Perhaps I should not. I am in confinement, after all.”

“Oh—yes, of course,” Esca said, shaking his head with a light scoff at himself. Marcus grinned and returned to his breakfast before the doctor spoke his mind from the other end of the table. “Forgive me if this is out of my place, sir,” he said to Esca, “But I believe F’ord Marcus should accept the invitation.”

Both Esca and Marcus traded glances and snorted with laughter. “You are serious?” Marcus asked, astounded.

Guern, unperturbed by their laughter, gave a shrug and continued with his opinion. “I am. I have come to know Dr. Watson rather well this last week. Helping him on his rounds has been beneficial to the pair of us. He receives much-needed assistance and I not only a friend, but an accurate reading of the community’s beliefs regarding this child.”

“And your conclusion?” Esca demanded, leaning forward eagerly on his elbows. Guern hesitated and sighed before answering. “It is troubling….”

“Out with it,” Esca ordered.

“There are whispers that Capt. Marcus Aquila is, in fact, a man and is only pretending to be fortunate. Many do not believe there is a child. Many more believe a maid to be carrying it in Marcus’ place.”

Gasps rent out of the pair of lords so loudly the sounds echoed in the lofty room. “ _No_.”

“I am afraid so. I have done my part in stamping out these hurtful rumors as best I can, but as I am employed by you, I am hardly an unbiased source. There remains a stubborn faction that must see to believe.”

Chewing, Esca nodded somewhat absently, his eyes already unfocused as he pondered with all his facilities of thought. Marcus caressed his growing bulge, and wondered why his mother and Capt. Aquila had not given him word of these damaging rumors. He had had no idea they faced such a battle. He began to compose a note to them in his head, an inquisition, an apology, a plea for them to defend their honor.

“Marcus? I say, MARCUS!”

“Hm?” Marcus jumped and blinked. Esca smirked at him. “I have asked you if you would like to go to Watson’s after all.”

“Oh!” Marcus scooped up the little card that had acted as the anvil that crushed his idea of being safely free of scorn. A closer inspection of the card revealed that unknown friends would also be in attendance, putting Marcus off the idea. He did not wish to form a first impression in this condition.

“Watson is a medical household; one with a fortunate-born child as well.” Guern said, “It would not be so out of place for you to get out of the house with such company.”

“Yes, those were my thoughts exactly,” Marcus said, “only I will not be the only guest. Watson mentions others—I should not risk it, no doubt there will be innocent girls in attendance. I should not want to scare them.”

Esca snorted. “I do not think Watson keeps such delicate company—and even if he did…I say go.”

“You will not be embarrassed?”

Esca shrugged, but his eyes were practically on fire as he leaned forward. “In all honesty, I _want_ you to go.”

“Cunoval, really. It is just idle gossip. I fear parading around like a swollen bear will generate stories far worse than fantastical switcher-roos.”

“Marcus, I know that you are driven half mad staying trapped in this house—truly, I do not know how you have lasted this long. If I were in your place….in any matter, you deserve some company, and as you are not currently speaking to your mother, perhaps this is the answer. Think of the child. How will he feel if there are whispers that he was born to servants instead…as I have warned you before, a gypsy’s bastard will never be taken seriously.”

Marcus chewed his lip. “My mother would surely die of a heart attack if she heard that I was calling on acquaintances in this advanced condition, no less Fortunate Watson. What Miss Swan and the others always have to say about him is just so…..Why Mother would positively—“ laughing, Marcus could hardly think of the proper adjective to describe her conniption, but Esca nodded. “Precisely why you want to do it, do not attempt to hide it.”

Caught out, Marcus snickered. “Perhaps that is a _part_ of my motivation. I am a disgraceful, ungrateful son through and through, but I mean never to be a disgraceful husband. Think of what they would say about you if I paraded around like a loose cannon.”

The words were scarcely out of Marcus’ mouth—Esca grinning wolfishly at them—before Marcus at last understood the nobleman’s motivation in insisting he break confinement. He _wanted_ the whole village to see him Changed, to see him and assume, as they must, that Esca had taken him as his own and brought the change about in his passions.  Marcus’ face slackened as the realization overtook him and he puffed stale breath. “Cunoval—you fiend.”

Esca merely chuckled.

Marcus’ mind was suddenly decided. He would go. He would see what kind of group could accept the eccentricities of Sherlock Watson. It would be a much preferred pass time than sitting up here unoccupied in this house for another day, _and_ the ridiculous rumors that he and Esca were a pair of men illegally wed and that the child was fruit of Esca’s exploits with the maids had to be rectified immediately.

Esca winked. “So I implore you, go forth, Marcus, and boldly misbehave until all have seen with their own eyes.”

Returning Esca’s merry chuckle, Marcus began to look forward to presenting to the world a Marcus Aquila who willingly submitted to this fiery nobleman.

 

||||

The thought of being enclosed in another group as boring as that of his mother’s was abhorrent, but surely this could be nothing like that circle.

Marcus took the trap into town, having ankles the size of tree stumps. The weather was sunny and mild, and he greatly enjoyed the open air. The quick trip into town was the most excitement Marcus had had in the dark weeks since the prince’s secret visit. The driver parked in front of a very nice town house and hopped down to help Marcus onto the street. As upon his arrival in this village, heads turned and curtains twitched as locals curiously eyed him. Steeling himself against the spotlight, Marcus reminded himself that this was for the child. All would know that it was his own flesh and blood and believe that it was Esca who changed him.

Smoothing his jacket just so, Marcus made sure his bump was not missed by anyone before climbing off this make-shift pedestal. The vehicle rocked and shifted dangerously as his weight left it, and the boy hesitantly released his arm once he was on the ground. “Shall I wait for you, f’ord?”

Marcus wanted to tell the lad to return to the house, but the wise thing would be to make sure that he would actually be welcomed in this condition. If the others in this house laughed in his face, Marcus would need a quick get-away. He thumped the young man on the back. “Yes, good thinking, Peter. If all goes well I will send someone out to let you go.”

“Good luck, f’ord,” the lad said sincerely with a bashful grin. Marcus winked at his loyal coachman and hobbled carefully up the stoop. He knocked but only had to wait a moment before the door opened and a thin girl gave him a smile and said he’d been expected.

Marcus was led inside and up some stairs. As they neared the tea room, Marcus could hear conversation in full swing—one man laughed loudly while another more gentler-voiced one seemed to be in the middle of a mild break-down much to the chagrin of a third, recognizable as Sherlock Watson. Marcus waited in the hall as he was announced and then he stepped into the sunlit room.

The conversation stopped abruptly. Marcus found his host and two handsome others in the sitting room. The three stood courteously with wide smiles as Marcus moved further into the parlor. Marcus suddenly felt very out of place, towering over these men who stood looking at him in great interest.

Sherlock Watson came forward with a grin. He wore men’s clothes blended with embroidered socks and cravat. Marcus took note of the clever, if not a little bold, mix in order to see what he might make of it with his own wardrobe in the future. “So thrilled you chose to join us, Frtnt Lord.” Sherlock said, “This way we may give you a more intimate welcome to the circle of social pariahs.”

The nature of the group was illuminated, and Marcus at once felt insulted and honored to be included. After a brief hesitation, he weighed his feelings and found that he was more honored, so smiled kindly.

“Speak for yourself, Sherly,” said a tall, dark haired man with a goatee of scruffy facial hair, “Society would happily take any of us but you.”

Marcus chuckled, amused and flattered to hear that he did not strictly belong here.

“Frtnt. Will Norrington,” Sherlock said to Marcus, indicating the speaker. Will had dark wavy hair to his shoulders, tied at the nape. He was handsome and beautiful in a much pleasanter way than Sherlock’s stark features. Slender in the way of the fortunate, Will could easily fit in with his gender, except he might very well have been the first fortunate man Marcus had ever met who kept a beard. It clashed shockingly with the fair apparel he wore to emphasize his slender grace. Will gave a kind smile and a graceful bow of his head as Sherlock moved on to the third in the room,

“And Frtnt. bachelor Cillian Murphy.”

The third was the quintessential lovely young man. Cillian was youngest in the room, not yet out of his teens, and quite breathtaking, nearly ethereal. Soft dark hair, a face that looked almost gaunt, eyes an astonishing blue, his pink lips pursed in a shy smile, and his cheeks tinted as he gave a demure bow, murmuring in a soft little voice, “A pleasure, Farchunate Lard Cunoval.”

He was so Irish Marcus barely understood him.

Marcus cleared his throat, “I was glad to be invited. My husband is so busy of late I find myself unoccupied—would you be so kind as to inform my footman that he need not stay the whole hour?”

Sherlock grinned and winked. “Of course, and I would be happy to send you home in a coach—what with your condition, it is the least I could possibly do.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said as Sherlock rang for a servant and gave the orders in a soft aside while Will took the lead of conversation,

“Yes, it’s an honor to have the Frtnt. Lord join us!” Will said as they all took their seats. “I know your feeling of aimlessness. Norrington sails on the HMS Dauntless and so is away for the most of every year.” Will’s eyes fell to Marcus’s distended stomach beneath his most colorful waist coat, “My, you are on your way with a hearty little man-cub, aren’t you?”

“Yes,” Marcus mumbled, holding his new, unmistakable bulge. “I’m meant to be laying-in but it is not exactly twins or something I cannot handle just yet.”

“Nonsense, a strapping man like you?” Sherlock asked. “I should think twins would even the playing field.”

Will spoke up, “The whole town is curious as to why you should need the live-in assistance of Dr. Guern. All is well, I hope?”

“Oh, yes,” Marcus remembered to breathe through the unpleasant lurch in his stomach as he spun the prepared lie regarding the mid-fellow, “only my husband worries so he’s keeping a doctor in reach without robbing the whole town of yours.”

“Oh, how sweet,” Cillian breathed. Sherlock snorted, “You’re lucky you are not actually married to a doctor. I swear if I could have gotten John to leave me be for a single moment my whole pregnancy through!”

“Dr. Watson is familiar with the changing condition?”

“Heavens no, but that didn’t stop him.”

They laughed.

“So,” Marcus cleared his throat, asked Sherlock and Will, “You both have children?”

“ _I_ do,” Sherlock said, “you met Hamish that day at the hunt; a son the perfect picture of his father. Now I have two Johns to put up with.” He actually sounded quite affectionate, something like a real smile on his face. “I had Hamish in London, and I do coincidently know Dr. Guern from the ordeal. I met him in the city when he had the happy job of stepping in for a consult with my doctor seeing to my troubles with—“

“Sherlock, really,” Will cut in sternly.

“What? Look at him! He already knows the trouble of The Changes; surely he’s intelligent enough to understand its hell Changing _back_ as well!”

Marcus had not considered it before. He took a deep breath. “Is it worse?”

“No worse, but no better,” Sherlock said with a shrug. There was a pause, in which Will looked at Sherlock threateningly. Before Marcus could even get suspicious, Sherlock was talking, “Will has no children, but _he_ knows the doctor because he called him for a private consultation the moment Guern was in town.”

For one split moment in time, Marcus thought Will might launch over the tea table and strangle Sherlock, but in a heartbeat it was gone, replaced with the tired kind of affection between two firm friends, “It was just a little concern. Nothing to worry about, I assure you.”

“Yes, but how boring is that?” Sherlock asked. “A charming man like yourself, and a _man_ like that doctor, and your naval officer gone for six weeks. We would all love to hear of what the two of you got up to—“

“For heaven’s sake! Mind yourself, Sherlock!” Will snapped, “The frt. Lord Cunovul doesn’t understand you like we do, he may think you are serious!”

The room fell silent and all eyes turned to Marcus, who smirked, “I might, if I didn’t know the doctor’s honorable character.” He smiled kindly at Will, who relaxed and shook his head, asked, “Did anyone warn you about Sherlock? He’s terrible.”

“Ah, yes, actually,” Marcus answered allowing a wicked grin, “Lord Esca has warned me of his character, though he did say that Dr. Watson has greatly improved him.”

Will laughed openly, and Cillian’s little chuckles seemed to be escaping him against his wishes. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and explained, “Yes, Esca and I never really got on until I brought a doctor to this village. The Old Man’s health brought John to Brigantes Abbey quite regularly and I occasionally joined him there.”

“Of course,” Will explained, “since Dr. Guern’s arrival, John hasn’t been called up to the Abbey and for that Sherlock is a little sore. He rather liked being the only one in the county who ever saw the young Lord Cunoval off a horse and having a cup of tea.”

Marcus chuckled, “He does keep to himself a lot.”

“More than that, he’s an outright _recluse_ ,” Sherlock cried but then Will cut him off with a polite, “We were worried he would turn you into one as well; so you can imagine how happy we are that you’ve joined us today. Though I’m afraid Sherlock’s behavior is giving off the wrong impression.”

“Not at all,” Marcus assured, “I’m enjoying this.”

“Cillian you are being very quiet over there.” Sherlock said suddenly. It was as if Will’s admonishments had stirred a beehive inside him, and he had to prove something. The ethereal youth to Marcus’ right jumped and spoke quickly,

“I am just enjoyin’ the biscuits.”

Sherlock looked like a cat that had found a mouse to play with.

“What can be the matter? You are usually so loquacious.”

“Leave him alone, Sherlock,” Will said, pulling from his pocket a cigar. He didn’t light it yet. Sherlock’s eyes snapped to it, and he said, “Oh, don’t, Will, really. You know how those make me sick—and the frtnt. lord too, I’m sure.”

“Keep your bonnet on, Sherlock,” Will said, searching his pockets for a match.

Sherlock chuckled dryly. “Oh, you’re not side railing me with that old trick.” He fixed cold grey eyes on Cillian. “Go ahead and smoke if you want to. I want to know why Cillian is so suddenly very quiet.”

Will tucked the cigar away, defeated. There was an outburst of Irish accent from the youth that Marcus needed a moment to translate,

“Oh, leave me alone, s’om, before I trow this tea in yer face!”

Sherlock threw his head back and howled with laughter. Will leaned back and sighed wearily. Marcus didn’t know if he should laugh or not. Cillian fidgeted after his outburst as he tried to reclaim a sense of propriety to match Will’s. The corners of Marcus’ mouth twitched as he recalled the outburst he had heard through the wall before entering the room.

“Yes, that’s right, frtnt. Lord Cunovul, do have a laugh. We’re never serious.” Sherlock said.

“I’m always serious,” Will contradicted.

“Yes, and you’re also boring. Cillian, my lad, you mustn’t be afraid of the strapping frtnt. lord.”

“I’m not afraid!” the boy instantly insisted, revealing the exact opposite. Marcus turned his body toward him with a mind of clearing this nonsense up once and for all, if anything, just too quiet Sherlock. “It is okay if you are a little intimidated by me. I am not a normal fortunate. I suspect that is why frtnt. Watson is so fiery today. We’ll excuse him and commend your choice to stay quiet.”

Cillian blushed. Will gasped. It fell so silent a pin could be heard if dropped. The chair creaked under Marcus and he smiled innocently at Sherlock. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and after a long moment, ceded control to Marcus. He looked away and drew breath. “Well...”

Will laughed. “I have lived to see everything! Sherlock H. Watson down for the count.”

“Do shut up, William. I can’t very well go three boxing rounds with the frtnt. Lord of Brigantes swollen up as big as he is, can I?”

“I do beg your pardon, Your frtnt. Lordship,” Will said, “But we are behaving very poorly for our guest no matter what you say.”

“No, no,” Marcus said, laughing. “I find you all amusing. You have been acquainted long?”

“Oh, well, Will and I grew up together!” Sherlock said. Marcus looked to Will for confirmation. The man nodded. “You can imagine how many times I have tried to sever ties with him.”

“Yet you never do.”

“Everyone else is boring,” Will teased. Sherlock smiled affectionately and then he pointed with both fingers out of his clasped hands at Cillian. “My husband’s cousin’s nephew, here, is far too promising to leave to farming spuds, don’t you agree? John and I have taken him in, given him an education, trained him in some accomplishments, and now he’s just about to debut into genteel society. Go on, tell us what kind of husband you’re hoping for, Cillian.”

“Only someone kind, cousin,” was the soft voiced, Irish accented answer.

“Nonsense, you also want him rich enough to afford a big house. If you marry just anyone, you might end up destitute within a year and when you are living on top of each other in a cabin you’ll end up with a Catholic litter no smaller than your mother’s!”

“Sherlock!” Will snapped. “He’s unmarried, you cannot talk to him like that!”

Cillian blushed very prettily and Marcus thought the stunning youth had the loveliest sensibilities in the whole group; he wondered if it was at all proper for Cillian to be here with the likes of Sherlock and Will and himself, Fortunate gentlemen who hardly fit the bill.

“Ah!” Will cried, pointing at Marcus’ face. He asked Sherlock, “There. Did you see it?”

“No,” Sherlock clearly lied.

“See what?” Marcus asked.

Will explained quickly before Sherlock could make a sound, “I saw you realize how improper it looks for us to have Cillian to ourselves. I _keep_ trying to make Sherlock understand this, but he refuses to let me bring in a chaperone.”

“We are married, _fruitful_ gentlemen!” Sherlock cried, “His virtue couldn’t be safer. His inclusion in our party is no different than a maiden in her mother’s knitting circle. Society knows that.”

“Society knows nothing of the kind. Society sees me, whose husband is absent to show me affection therefore perhaps I get it from elsewhere. You, who was thrown from one of England’s finest schools upon your morning sickness all over a professor, and _him_ ,” he nodded to Marcus, “a fifteen year veteran of the militia who _lied to Her Majesty_. Cillian would have been better off in Elizabeth Swan’s circle of friends and you know it.”

“Miss Swan is departing for the Caribbean!” Sherlock practically roared, “I am not going to let Cillian go off to be kidnapped by pirates!”

Cillian looked terrified by the notion. Marcus caught his eye and asked kindly, “Do they often speak of you as if you are not present?”

The direct attention suddenly given to him colored Cillian’s pale features and he nodded, and all the while, Will and Sherlock spoke over each other in their debate. Marcus, quite used to doing so with the Old Man’s frequent shouting up at Brigantes Abbey, left the two to what was clearly an old argument and engaged the shy Cillian in a conversation about his home in Ireland and his feelings about England.

Overall, Marcus considered the tea a splendid way to spend his afternoon and he felt happy as he returned home to report success.

|||

Esca greeted Marcus in front of his father and Nurse Sasstica, so the nobleman kissed Marcus’ cheek and absently took his hand, inquiring after the tea party. “You must be tired. Perhaps you shouldn’t have stayed so long. I nearly sent Peter back for you.”

“Sherlock was happy to order a coach for me, and I am not tired; I can manage,” Marcus assured, biting back anger. One would think he was an invalid the way everyone coddled him! He would have enjoyed the walk home, but Sherlock would have none of it. Marcus wished it came more naturally to him, accepting all of these gracious gestures to the fortunate lord and playacting as a happy couple, because he could feel the eyes of the Old Man and the nurse on him yet he did not want to linger here with Esca’s hand holding his a moment longer.

“Did you find Sherlock Watson behaving himself?” Esca smirked up at him.

“As well as expected I suppose,” Marcus admitted with a fond smile, “His friend Will Norrington keeps him in line.”

“Who, my dear?”

“Fortunate Will Norrington,” Marcus repeated, “surely you know him. He says he grew up with Sherlock.”

Esca frowned a little more and in the silence the old man called loudly, “KNIGHT TO F3!”

Esca glanced over at him and then back to Marcus as his face lit up with memory, “Oh, Will Turner. I’d forgotten he married that naval officer. It’s been ages since I’ve seen him. How is he?”

“He’s well enough. He wouldn’t be surprised you have forgotten his marriage. Sherlock did mention that you never show yourself in Society, my dear.”

Snorting, Esca said, “Knowing Sherlock he must not have drawn it so mildly.”

“Well—no,” Marcus admitted, “the word _recluse_ might have been thrown about.”

Esca only laughed in the face of the ugly word, making Marcus fear that Esca truly did not truly comprehend this about himself.

“It does not bother you?” Marcus asked with a glance over at the Old Man and the nurse as they played their game of chess. The nurse did not appear to be listening but she must have been. Esca looked at him, that _stare_ and he asked, “Why should it?”

Marcus could only sigh, not having the strength to give a real answer: _Because you are almost a laughing stock_ or _because your lack of warmth towards the people has resulted in me being left with no choice but to break confinement and befriend social pariahs to prove a point_. Marcus truly did enjoy Sherlock and Will and thus cared not that society had forgotten him. But he thought Esca should still care. It was something of a Lord’s duty, was it not?

Esca took his fingers and kissed them, “I wish you would have let me know you were planning on staying so long. I looked for you home an hour ago.”

Recognizing a chance to try to sound the doting husband, Marcus said with feeling, “Oh, I know I have lost all tack of time. Oh, I’m sorry, my dear, I did not mean to leave you alone up here. Where has my mind gone? It’s the Change. It makes it me forgetful.”

“Quiet alright, dear,” Esca said with an extra stretch to his smile. Then he called across the room, “Rook to E4!”

The nurse moved the rook and the Old Man swore loudly and fell into deep thought over the board.

Esca released Marcus and crossed the room, kissed the man’s white hair, “You’ll find that’s check mate, Old Man! It was a good game but now I must be going!”

Lord Cunoval reached up and caught the lapels of his son’s jacket in his frail fingers and called, “You are a good lad, Esca, but far too busy these days!” He pointed at Marcus, “You ought to be doting on your husband more; it’s good for the child’s health if the mother is kissed regularly!” He cackled.

“Father, really,” Esca plead as he slipped out of his father’s grip but the Old Man was riled now and he made gestures, urging, “Go on, now, kiss him as hard as you can! It’ll make your son stronger. Trust me. I kept your mother’s heart rate up her whole pregnancy through and look at you!” he thumped Esca on the chest.

Marcus saw it on Esca’s face that he was going to comply with his father’s wishes so Marcus braced himself and let Esca approach him, pull his face down and claim his mouth. They had not kissed since their wedding night and it was a proper kiss that gave Marcus a taste of Esca’s mouth, a spark of the fire Marcus used to see a lot of before the wedding. It was over very quickly, and Marcus struggled to regain his breath as discreetly as possible whilst Esca returned to his work, the tea hour long over.

After dinner, the Old Man challenged Marcus to a game of chess and he took the nurse’s seat as she went over to the window seat with knitting needles. Marcus lost the game and retired to his room. “I am going to bed,” he announced, thinking to add to Esca for the benefit of the others, “Don’t be long, my dear.”

Shortly after Marcus made it into his warm bed, Esca was in the room to complete the picture of a happily married couple unable to spend a full day apart. The moment they had the privacy of closed doors, Esca turned a searching gaze on him. “Now tell me truthfully, Marcus. Did you have any trouble from anyone today?”

“None at all,” Marcus assured with a slight smirk. “Not every word I utter in front of our audience is a lie, Cunoval. I did enjoy myself at the Watson’s tremendously, and I heard not a peep against my decision to break confinement.”

“I find that rather difficult to believe.”

“I was given wide stares and frequent sideways looks, but that is not so unusual for me; I hardly noticed it. No, Sherly Watson was a model host, and his friends charming companions. I am most pleased to have attended.” His words soothed Esca, but Marcus found that there was more he was bursting to share, and out it spilled as the nobleman climbed into the bed, “In fact, it was rather more than a tea party. I believe today was my initiation.”

“Initiation? To what?”

“A sort of secret club for the Unusuals,” Marcus said with a pleased grin. Then on his fingers, he counted, “There are four of us: myself and Watson, both able to pass as men when we please. Then there is Will Norrington, as I have told you. Did you know he keeps a beard? I had never heard of the style for the lovely. But it becomes him well. Besides that fashion choice, he is bosom friends with Sherly, so of course he is not welcome in Ms. Swan’s circles. Besides that, I know little about him except that Mr. Norrington leaves him all alone and without child.”

“An unhappy marriage? Oh dear.”

Marcus grunted with sympathy and then ticked off his little finger, “And then there is the little one. The Watson’s ward, an Irish cousin they’ve raised and again kept out of Ms. Swan’s circle by deference to Sherly. Cillian Murphy will reach his majority and debut in only a matter of weeks. He is a doll.”

Esca snorted lightly, settling into the pillows and blankets on his side of the bed. “I have heard of him extensively from Frt. Watson; it seems before you arrived, Sherlock’s intention was to win Cillian a title as well as a comfortable home.”

Marcus huffed and shook his head. “A sweet boy, to be sure, but not fortunate lord material, surely. I see him in a quaint parish one day, perhaps a naval officer’s husband like Will.” Lost for a moment imagining the future of his friends, Marcus did not realize he was being watched until his eye fell on Esca’s stare. But it was not the usual unreadable one, for it had a spark in it, the shadow of a smile on his lips.

“Then you are happy here?”

Marcus barely refrained from rolling his eyes and yawned comfortably. “Of course I am. Tis more than a sinful rake like me deserves, and I am ever grateful. But what of you, Cunoval?”

Eyes rolling wildly like a spooked stallion, Esca’s lips smacked, “What about me?”

Marcus took a moment to ascertain his friend’s true emotions before asking out right, “Are you happy? I shouldn’t ever want you regretting you saved me. I received no harsh words today, but the rumors are flying wide as we speak. There will be plenty who will not think highly of you for letting your fortunate husband run amuck. Not to mention those who could tell that my condition is more advanced than this marriage.”

Esca looked down, for a moment displaying uncertainty and fear, but then his hard mien returned as Marcus quickly reassured, “I did my best to stem the bleeding. I spoke of you as often as I could and hinted that we have known of one another (in an unofficial betrothal) since we were children so that our union is stronger. I used words like _destiny_ and _instant connection_ and even _whirlwind_ ,” Marcus laughed at himself, this time actually rolling his eyes.

“Then I do not think our illusions are threatened as yet. And as for the nay-sayers, if you do have a spot of trouble, anything at all, Marcus, I want you to bring them to me. We will face our accusers as a united front.”

“Such a defense will certainly reinforce the notion that you are to be blamed for every bit of my indecency.”

A wicked smirk tugged at the corners of Esca’s mouth but he tamed it. Marcus put out the light, but Esca spoke as if they were not in bed. “I am glad to hear that your new friends allow that you are in no need of confinement physically. If only the whole world were like The Unsuals.”

Marcus grinned again at the nickname and shrugged hard enough that Esca felt it in the mattress. “It should be common sense. Everyone knows I have fought in wars. I have seen men killing one another in brutality and fear. I am no stranger to pain and exhaustion—in short, I know my limits in both mind and body.”

“I do not think many know what battle is truly like and cannot fathom  it,” Esca said, speaking as softly as Marcus had.

“Then I will explain it to them. If they must make a battle of me bearing a harmless child whilst making friends, then I will teach them what true war is.”

||||

Marcus’ parents called on them the very next day, his mother as pale as death and asking, “Marcus, I pray that the rumors are not true and you in truth did _not_ accept an invitation to tea in your condition!”

“I did.”

Breathless, Mother slumped onto the sofa, hand on her heart, “You paraded your Change about the village? You put such privacy on display, forced such indelicacy upon others?”

“Harriet, if I may interject here with the husband’s opinion,” Esca said, amiably. “Your son promptly dismissed the invitation on grounds of such propriety but I insisted he go.”

“You insisted?” Capt. Aquila chortled as Mother’s jaw dropped.

“I believe my fortunate husband is, in this condition most especially, the most beautiful creation in all of England. I am prideful and boastful even on the best of days, and I confess that allowing the world to see the honor Marcus has bestowed upon me thrills me endlessly. That said, Marcus wished to get out of the house and who am I to deny him? The last thing I am ever going to do is imprison him here.”

This was, perhaps, the longest speech either of them had ever heard from Esca since meeting him. Marcus’ heartbeat had quickened, and his breath was thin as he considered the passion the man had successfully fused with his false words. Capt. Aquila beamed while Harriet fought for her voice and cried, “But his health would surely wither away if he is out and about all the time!”

“Nonsense,” both Esca and Marcus said at once in perfect unison. This was a point Marcus had already covered thoroughly with Esca the night after his tea-date, wherein he had shared with Esca his happiness at securing three new friends. Together now, they outlined the main points of their argument for non-confinement.

“I ask you both, is seeing with one’s own eyes any different than hearing of Marcus’ Change? The indelicacy is done the moment anyone’s condition is announced, the images ignited in one’s mind, and no amount of hiding away will fix that.”

“Furthermore, on the question of my health, I have survived war, and I have seen death and carnage, poverty and true evil in the world,” Marcus said soberly. He so rarely spoke of combat, his words had great impact. Esca’s hand on his shoulder tightened as he elaborated, “To be happily wed and with child is not the greatest test of my fortitude, Mother.”

“And nor should it be a test of anyone else’s at the mere glimpse of his changed silhouette.”

A silence followed this presentation and Harriet grew tense. “And just what does this exotic doctor of yours think of all of this?” she demanded.

Marcus chuckled. “Dr. Guern is an Englishman, Mother, I do not know from where you are getting your reports.”

“Guern possesses a spirit not unlike Marcus’,” Esca announced with respect, “He loathes being indoors and has taken to making rounds with Dr. Watson to fill his days. He has granted us free reign so long as we exercise caution and common sense in regards to the protection of the child.”

“I do not run or jump or wrestle with anyone,” Marcus promised, “I take an arm on the stairs always, and I sit when my body tells me to sit. Do not fret, Mother.”

Her mouth was a tight line. “I am as convinced as always that you will do as you please. What I fear are the remarks from others.”

Capt. Aquila patted her shoulder. “Tatty, my dear, we will endure as we have for these twenty years; with deaf ears and Christian forgiveness.”

She teemed quietly to herself, and accepted in silence this new cross to bear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope the new friends in Marcus' life were at least entertaining to read? I know as far as their individual fandoms go they might be a little OC, but we chose "fortunate" looking actors and kind of arbitrarily chose which character/pairing to use. No rhyme or reason to it. As one of my favorite villains would say, "I was just having some fuuun."
> 
> :)


	13. The Discovery of Many More Discreet Fellows

A drizzly morning found both Capt. Aquila and Harriet crowding Marcus’ breakfast table. They had been persuaded to spend the night by their new son-in-law, with whom they had at last found common ground on which to converse endlessly: Marcus’ reckless behavior. While Harriet did little more than rant about it, Esca favored Capt. Aquila’s tendency to tease out of affection, always a smile on his face and a wink ready to land on Marcus. As a youngster, Marcus had always strived for such winks from his uncle, for they hinted to him the establishment of a secret club and an underlying pride that Marcus should belong to it.

Whenever Esca winked at Marcus, the mother man experienced the elation of discovery again and again, for each time Marcus was surprised to learn that Esca could belong to such a secret society.

“Marcus does well in breaking custom, Tatty,” Capt. Aquila said, with one of those paternal winks punctuating the sentence. Marcus grinned affectionately at his uncle.

“It is his grace, to be sure,” Esca said. Marcus spared him a somewhat bashful glance at the skewed compliment to his loveliness as Capt. Aquila laughed in the way of a man finally offered a frame of thought for an elusive idea. Marcus Aquila’s most feminine trait was to behave as a man. Here was a place for Harriet to get in one of her deeper stings, but Dr. Guern had pulled her into a side conversation regarding the child and so she missed her opportunity.

Pleased to have been so unexpectedly returned to his familial breakfasts, Marcus opened an invitation with a smile. Esca commented on the happy smile dancing on his lips, and broke into his thoughts with a soft question on it.

“It is Cillian Murphy’s debut ball, at the Watson’s,” Marcus explained to him, squirming to itch beneath the strap of a hideous breast band designed to maintain his bouncing chest. He kept his voice low as well, to avoid Harriet’s thoughts on ‘that crowd’ as she called it. If she had it her way, Marcus would replace Miss Swan in her circle of pompous fortunate and idiot girls. Esca, in reach to do so, smirked and aided Marcus in soothing the itch between his shoulder blades. Marcus sighed in thanks, but alas, with one itch seen to three more appeared on the other side, and Marcus wished his shirt was looser so that he might claw through it with better ease.

“A debut,” Esca mused, scratching with one hand and lifting the card with the other. “He will make a fine match, no doubt.”

“Especially with Sherly spearheading the entire ordeal,” Marcus said, hefting an elbow over his shoulder so that he could reach the very center of his back. “He’s determined Cillian will snare royalty.”

Esca laughed to himself but quickly schooled his face back to sobriety. Marcus was in a good humor and said softly, “I know what thought is in your head, sir, don’t try to hide it.”

“I do not know what you mean, s’am,” the nobleman said innocently. He ceased his aid in clawing at Marcus’ back and folded a piece of bacon neatly into his mouth, staring as he chewed. Marcus only chuckled, and leaned in closer to say it so that his parents would not hear. (They had both tactfully turned their attentions to Guern’s end of the table when Esca’s fingernails had pulled the first grateful moan from Marcus.) “You were thinking that if Sherly were half the genius everyone says he is, then he would know to appoint me president of the campaign, since I know all about ensnaring royalty.”

Esca barked with laughter and spoke around the food in his mouth. “By God! That is exactly what I was thinking!”

Pleased with himself, and strangely empowered by joking on a subject that once crippled him with agony, Marcus neatly folded the invite and stood it on end next to his juice so that he could admire the elegant script proclaiming Cillian’s big day. The breast band still bothered incessantly, but Marcus put it from his mind, needing a rest from the physical exertion of battling the clothes.

“I wish I were able to attend,” he lamented at his usual volume, so that the others might join the conversation now. “So that I may see how these things are properly done.”

Harriet showed custom enthusiasm for a debut ball, and Marcus let his mind wander as she launched into a description of a proper ceremony. His own debut had gone without such a thing and had been followed instead by only a handful of dinners before he came here to meet Esca…

“You are able to attend,” Esca spoke next. “Do not forget that the doctor and I give full permission for you to break confinement whenever you wish it. In fact, I believe it is our obligation as the county odd balls to break tradition. We mustn’t let them think that their accusations thus far have had any effect on us.”

“Here, here,” Capt. Aquila agreed with a lifted cup.

Marcus shook his head and waved it off, idly clawing at his left ribs. “Teas tire me; I will not test my limits with a ball. Besides, no one would look at the debutant if a beached whale is trying to do the Quadrille. I will set this one out and get the highlights from them the next day.”

|||

The billiard room of Brigantes Abbey had not been this crowded in decades.

Though inviting social pariahs to the house did nothing to change the minds of the more elite in the village, it served in many ways. Not only was it simply his turn to host, but Marcus did not feel up to a journey down the hill today, and perhaps his special interest in them would earn Sherlock, Will, and Cillian attention from those aching to win such invitations inside Brigantes Abbey.

In preparation of seeing Sherlock Watson again, Marcus had deliberated for hours on his outfit for the day. With his valet’s helpful opinion (not to mention skillful needlework) on various articles of clothing, Marcus had at last settled on something of his own invention. His blue military jacket with black lace sewed to the cuffs, a rich purple cravat with excess volume, and purled socks. It felt safe to experiment with fashion for this meeting, here in the privacy of his own home.

The initial reactions had been positive and filled with genuine gasps of pleasure. The best part, of course, had been that Esca, the old man, the nurse and the doctor had witnessed similar reactions from the company upon their arrival. Esca had bit his lip briefly and complimented him on a job well done in setting Example. Marcus simply felt like a king in that moment.

Billiards made any afternoon a pleasant competition, and Marcus felt like a winner. Thus, as his new friends regaled him with their separate versions of the night in question, Marcus propped himself on his billiard stick and listened with split attention. One portion of his brain, which grew larger with each passing minute, was focused on the burning itch prevailing beneath his new shirt. Honestly, he had to speak to Stephanos about finding a softer material for the breast band, one that did not chafe his skin so. His nipples were quite agitated.

Meanwhile, he listened as Sherlock reported that he was overall pleased with the night’s success. His predicted number of suitors showed genuine interest in Cillian. Will was compliant to everything Sherlock said, and often brought up his own debut, now nearly six years past for comparison, as they could look to neither Sherlock’s scandalous outing nor Marcus’ private one for reference.

The young debutant had danced the night away, and said with china blue eyes filled with excitement, “They were all kind, exemplary gentleman. I even have trouble sorting their faces! Which one was the gentleman with the beard, and the pouty lips?”

“That was Mr. Eames, and you can do a hell of a lot better than that!” Sherlock said nastily, as if speaking of the ants that had ruined the picnic. Will snorted in a very I-told-you-so way, as he had warned such would happen if Sherlock went ahead and made the ball public instead of something more intimate.

“Then why did you let me dance with him?” Cillian asked hotly.

“I did not let you dance with him. I turned around and you were gone!” Sherlock said. He made his shot and got two in the center pocket. Then he sighed and shook his head, “Marcus, we could have used you last night. You needn’t have danced. We could have propped you up in a soft chair with a foot rest and made it your solemn duty to keep Cillian from saying yes on a first-come-first serve basis.”

“Mr. Eames was very pleasant. He made me laugh.”

“And that is about all he will be able to make you do. He certainly cannot make you rich and comfortable in your married life, as he is the no-account son of a bankrupt merchant.”

“In my experience, Sherly, bankruptcy is no great flaw in a marriage.”

“Oh, do shut up, Marcus. You do not count. You are richer than God, and even if you weren’t, Lord Esca is a nobleman; noblemen are allowed to be bankrupt. It’s kit and caboodle with that lot. A merchant bankrupt is just embarrassing.”

Cillian’s shoulders shook as he suppressed a laugh. Marcus, feigning offense as he was feigning marital bliss, shook his head and took a shot, missed. It was Will’s turn, and he circled the table, examining it in silence.

“Other than the charming but inadequate Mr. Eames, who did you enjoy dancing with, Cillian?” Marcus asked.

Cillian took a deep breath. “As I said, I can hardly remember their names. Was it Bishop I danced the Quadrille with?”

“Was it Bishop _with which_ I danced the Quadrille,” Sherlock corrected sternly.

“And yes,” Will said, checking a card propped on the corner of the table before taking his shot. The balls cracked loudly and scattered, but nothing went in the pockets.

“Peter Bishop,” Sherlock said. He looked into the middle distance. “He can be useful...good choice, cousin.”

Cillian looked pleased. Will sighed as the Irishman took a sloppy shot that made very little change to the table. It was Sherlock’s turn, and he made a shot he had had his eye on. It was clean and well executed. Then it was Marcus’ turn, and he had to study the new layout. As he did, Will chalked his stick.

“I do not think it is wise to teach Cillian to look at usefulness and income only. He must choose for happiness in the long run. Not just security. Remember that, Cillian. You will be saddled with this man for the rest of your life. You’ll do good to be able to tolerate being in the same room with him.”

Quite a bit of Cillian’s excitement was drained visibly from his face by such a daunting thought. He swallowed. “Who do you recommend, then?”

“I? Do not ask me. I know not what you look for privately in a man.”

Cillian blushed. Marcus took his shot and finished the game.

“What am I to look for? And how am I to deduce the traits in genteel society?

“Be patient, s’iss, you will know,” Sherlock said sagely.

“Search your feelings and dreams,” Marcus advised as they exited the house. “It is what I did.” He would never forget the day his introspection had revealed to him that his best friend was the very sort he would happily marry if he could have.

The servants had already set up the fencing material in the garden. Marcus took a seat for this, no longer permitted to spar with his friends ever since Stephanos reported the welt Sherlock had left on his arm last week. Will took the seat across the table from him so that Cillian could take the first turn against Sherlock.

As the match began to range all over the garden, Marcus broke the amiable silence between himself and Will. The last comment Will made inside, on the matter of private happiness in a marriage, had not left Marcus’ mind. It had resonated with him, for if he had managed to sweep Liathan into a fast marriage as he’d so hoped to do, then he would presently be tied to a man that hated him. The thought had risen an alarm in him for Will.

“Forgive me, Will, but I feel compelled to ask after your general happiness in regards to your marriage.”

Will naturally looked surprised, then uncomfortable, “What provokes such a compulsion?”

“Only that you do not seem particularly happy that your husband is returning tomorrow,” Marcus said delicately. The announcement had been made in a very offhand way at the start of the gathering and had not been brought up since. Will looked like he would deny such a claim for a moment and then he just looked tired, and dreadfully saddened.

“I wish he loved me as John loves Sherly, or his Lordship you,” Will murmured somewhat whimsically. Looking down, he frowned, “Alas, I am not blessed with domestic bliss and must instead dread Norrington’s return.”

Sickened now, Marcus asked, hesitantly because he did not want to cross boundaries. “He is a decent man, I hope. Nothing like cruelty--“

“Oh!” Will cried, “no, no, not that! Good lord, did I truly sound so beaten down as all of that? No, no,” he forced a laugh. “No.”

“What is it that you dread, then?”

“Only what others will say when he again leaves me.”

Marcus brow creased. “I do not follow.”

Will exploded in a sudden emotion, “It’s all very well when he’s gone and I am without child, isn’t it? But when he is _here_ and I am so _unchanged_ …” he looked defeated, “Everyone whispers. Everyone _knows_.”

Marcus did not know what to say and so said nothing.

“You and Sherly are both so lucky. A child straight away! I know it was the first go at it that got Sherly. Must have been the same for you as well?”

“Ah--yes,” Marcus choked out, caught off guard by the sudden turn to his private affairs.

“Forgive me,” Will said, sensing Marcus’ discomfort, “I am only jealous. If _only_ my wedding night had born such fruits. If I had a child, no one could say a word against me. Yet this is my lot in life. Guern informs me that I am of a smaller percent, those who must really _work_ at it with cycle timing and all sorts of little tricks to get a child.” Here Will pulled a rather horrible face of disgust.

Laughter jumped right out of Marcus, “Oh, please tell me you are not trying to say you are dreading your husband’s return because you are dismayed by the _work_ of intercourse!”

“Don’t be a fool!” Will cried, lighting up and sharing Marcus’ laughter. After a moment, his humor faded and he said sadly, “Though that does seem to be the case with my husband.”

Marcus honestly, even with his _one_ night of experience, didn’t have a clue how Will’s husband could have such views on intercourse. It was only to date the absolute best Marcus had ever felt inside and out. Will was red and shifting about uncomfortably. Finally Marcus cleared his throat and asked, “You think you do not excite him?”

“I know I do not.”

“But--“

“Oh, I used to, I think. Before the wedding. He used to whisper such things to me… then we were married and all was well enough, I suppose… but, within the first six months he stopped coming to me. It’s been three years and not a single night of it spent with him. Neither Watson nor Guern know that. They think we’re busy as bees and I haven’t the courage to set them straight. I’m half inclined to believe I’m much more fertile than the good doctors think, except that I haven’t been given the opportunity to prove it.”

At a complete loss, heart ringing for his friend mired in such a situation, Marcus could only sit there and wish things were different. The same wish he’d been wishing since that iron ball drove into his leg and sent his life careening down this barely navigable path.

He clapped a hand on Will’s shoulder, “Let them try to whisper now; they’ll have to contend with me and the Lord of Brigantes. They’ll stop their gossiping when speaking of it is enough to have them promptly thrown out of all the Cunoval parties.”

“What Cunoval parties?” Will asked with a smirk.

|||

The following weeks were busy for Marcus as he arranged a series of gatherings, dinners, and garden parties to hold his place in what had become a customary rotation of hosting between himself, Sherlock, and Will. This was most unusual for a fortunate in his condition, but as Esca had remarked playfully the other day, to follow custom would hardly honor their reputations. Thus, every third gathering of their company was open to others in society. Everyone Marcus invited happily accepted despite the propriety that said Marcus should remain unseen until after he gave birth. People were still excited to see the inside of Brigantes Abbey so no invitation was denied. Thus young Cillian received twice as many potential husbands as he ever had before.

Sherlock and Will stuck close to him as they guided the boy through the complicated traps of Society, and Marcus sat quietly and talked to any who wished to sit out of the way with him.

Esca was rarely found at one of these parties. Marcus was inclined to believe he only pretended to be busy with important estate matters as a way to avoid the people, just as Guern did (only the doctor remained in the eyes of society as he worked, whilst Esca disappeared in the hills.) Sherlock took it as another comment on Esca’s superior attitude, being too far above them to socialize. He heard more than one person softly whisper the word _recluse_ as if speaking of a disease. Marcus thought Esca was simply too shy.

At these parties Marcus was able to make a proper survey of Cillian’s acceptance into society. The men and women who felt it was advantageous to sit for a minute with the frtnt. Lord Cunoval discussed with Marcus the only thing he wished to discuss: Cillian Murphy’s prospects. He was such a gorgeous youth, Marcus was never forcing the topic on anyone.

Most liked Cillian well, and could see what Marcus saw: an innocent, sweet young man who deserved the best Society had to offer. Though no one said so flat out, they also believed as Will had testified on many occasions: that it was lamentable that his future should be in the hands of Sherlock Watson, who would no doubt lead him to a scandalous end. One forward man even insinuated with little guise that he would not be surprised if Cillian and Will ran off together.

When Marcus later relayed this conversation to his friends as they sat in Will’s sunlit parlor, the pair looked with alarm at one another and then burst into simultaneous laughter. Sherlock, who had made use of flowers in his wardrobe today, was less amused by Society whispering such things about his protégée, set right to devising ways to clear up the assumption.

“Will, you can’t come to dinner tonight.”

“Excuse me?” Will asked, shocked. “You are not literally kicking me out of our circle!”

“I am. Cillian’s future depends on it. We’ve narrowed it down to Bishop and Cobb, and I’m afraid both of them are at the hands of very haggish women who would agree to that man’s presumptions. Bishop’s mother has it against Cillian to begin with because of me, and Cobb’s sister can’t stand that Cillian’s prettier than her and will use you as an excuse. Oh, don’t be afraid, cousin, we are yet out of my depth here. I know exactly how we will hook them both.”

“But which one should I pursue?”

“Which ever you like best,” Marcus reminded him, squinting over his hand of cards as he considered exactly how Sherlock was pulling off so many daisies, and how he himself might add floral pattern to his fashions. Cillian kept forgetting to have an opinion on anyone. Sherlock waved a hand, the youth’s opinion the absolute least they should be focusing on in his mind. “We must walk a tight rope to keep their attentions while others tell them to move on. Oh, Willy, for God’s sake, don’t look so wounded. You are still my best friend. I just need you to go away for a little while.”

Will looked truly upset, on the verge of creasing the cards in his fists. “If I am not to leave my house again, what am I to do all day?”

“Norrington, of course,” was Sherlock’s instant reply. The naval officer had been home for a week.

Cillian choked on the cigar that Will had been teaching him to smoke. Marcus thumped him hard on the back, and said, “With the amount of attention Cillian has been receiving from every gentleman interested in a fortunate marriage, I do not think the opinion of one bitter old man is enough to change our ways.”

“Yes, cousin, don’t be cruel. Will needs us, and I can defend myself in the face of such accusations. Do not worry about me.”

Will did not look at all happy to be referred to in the third person, and with such a blasé comment about his situation. He laid his cards face down and left the game, though Marcus knew for a fact he held a hand that could have beaten both Cillian and himself.

Sherlock, after making his bet, leaned back and considered. Then with a sigh he said, “Yes. You are right, cousin. It is what Bishop and Cobb think in the long run, and they know John and I from University. Will, I take back part of what I said.”

“Only part?”

“Well, obviously. You must do Norrington. Do him until he leaves again. Hamish needs a wife—or a husband, if it comes to that, and I dream of such a connection between us.”

Will sighed. “I am trying, you know.”

“I know. Damn science. It’s the cigars I tell you. If you stop smoking it will happen. John and I pray for you, by the way. It is the only reason John can drag me to church every Sunday.”

An affectionate smile was shared between them. Marcus glanced at Cillian and saw that it made the youth as happy as it did him to see such a strong bond. But within the same breath, Sherlock’s grey eyes snapped cool once again, and he grinned wolfishly. “Now. Show ‘em, s’ams, and beat _this_ ,” he said proudly fanning his winning hand. Marcus and Cillian swore and tossed down their pathetic cards.

|||

Esca entered Marcus’ room and climbed into the bed without a word between them. They’d just spent the last hour with a crowd; the Watsons, Cillian and Will had joined the residents of Brigantes for dinner. In an attempt to stamp out the notion of reclusiveness, Marcus had insisted on Esca staying close and doting on him and by now they were tired of the act. Surely everyone understood by now that he was a pregnant male, and that he and Esca were happily wed? But as tedious as it sometimes felt, Marcus could not pass up an opportunity to better the circumstances of his child’s birth. He would fight another day.

Esca put out the lights and sighed wearily as he settled in. Marcus’ mind was too restless for sleep.

“What do you know of Commandeer Norrington?” Marcus asked into the dark.

“Norrington?” Esca asked. “Not much. Hardly anything at all, in fact.”

“Hmmm,”

“What is it?”

“Oh, no matter,” Marcus waved a hand. Esca went to an elbow, insisted,

“What is it?”

Marcus considered the morality of telling Esca all that Will had told him in confidence and settled with, “Will is unhappy in the marriage, and I only wish I could make it better for him.”

“What does Will have to say on Norrington’s character?”

“Good man,” Marcus assured at once, “A little… uninspired.” Perhaps Will could forgive him for betraying this confidence if he and Esca could somehow find a way to help.

“Well, one does hear stories about bachelors allowing themselves to be ensnared by a fortunate fellow only to discover within the marriage that they prefer the likes of women.”

“How terrible…” Marcus breathed, heart aching for his fortunate friend. Marcus was well aware of the acute pain of being a gender that was not preferred by the man he loved.

“I will try to gain Norrington’s confidence tomorrow, if you like.”

Marcus snapped out of his thoughts and beamed at Esca, unconsciously rolling towards him as he asked, “Could you? If we could get to the bottom of it, then perhaps there is something that can be done!”

“The bottom of it?” Esca snorted, “I know not what you mean. If the gentleman simply isn’t inspired then…” Esca shrugged.

Marcus bit his lip against betraying the last of Will’s confidence, “I know more about the situation than I am letting on, and I have this notion in my head.”

“Out with it.”

“I would betray a confidence.”

Esca laid in a long silence and then sighed, “I will get it out of the Commandeer tomorrow.”

“Good. Thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, dear,” Esca leaned over and pecked Marcus on the cheek and it was so informal that Marcus had to wonder if his husband even realized he had done it as he scooted down into the bed and made himself comfortable. “Good night.”

“Good night,” Marcus murmured.

|||

“Okay, Bishop is a dead end,” Sherlock stated angrily as he joined Marcus at the hearth of the new elegantly furnished sitting room.

It was late evening, in the midst of Marcus’ largest party to date. He had succeeded in tempting the most reluctant of guests to attend, and conversation with them had resulted in what Marcus considered a Conversation. At least five more people of reputable influence over the gossip mill were now convinced of Marcus’ fertility as well as the happy state of his marriage.

Sherlock teamed angrily in front of Marcus, barely suppressing rage rooted in embarrassment for his charge. Cillian had just excused himself from the room with undisguised haste, leaving Mr. Bishop looking only slightly distraught, but mostly relieved.

Before Marcus or either of his friends could approach the gentleman to ascertain the problem, a gorgeous blonde woman stood with a triumphant smirk aimed directly at Sherlock, Marcus, and Will. She joined Bishop at the window and took his arm possessively, then they walked out of the house.

“That was Miss Dunham,” Will supplied, “She has a fair inheritance.”

Marcus rubbed at his temple, and Sherlock seethed in rigid silence. This was the worst that could have happened, for Cillian had chosen the dark haired gentleman over the fairer Mr. Cobb, so it was in the end, Marcus’ advice that broke the poor boy’s heart, and he felt wretched for it.

Marcus recalled only now that he had, after all, navigated the path to his own heartbreak with such advice; what the hell had he been thinking guiding Cillian with it? He should have told him to marry with logic and indifference, as he had done with Esca, for no other husband could be as rigid in moral principle as he, and Cillian would no doubt find love within such a stable, practical union as what he would have had with Dominick Cobb.

“Where did Cillian go?” Marcus asked.

“To cry, no doubt,” Will said lowly. “I would.”

“No, there he is,” Sherlock said, digging an elbow into Marcus’ ribs and pointing. Cillian had indeed reentered the room looking a great deal more calm but angry. He joined their group immediately.

“Cousin, you missed a very large detail,” he said gravely. “Bishop is looking for an advantageous marriage? Miss Dunham revealed that I do not stand to inherit in Hamish’s place, and he ignored me, literally turned his back on me!”

“I saw as much,” Sherlock said, very reluctantly accepting the blame here and clearly out of practice in doing so, “Sorry.”

Cillian waved it aside quite coolly. “Let us just move past this. I would like the night to be over with already.”

“What? And lose a perfectly good chance to win some sympathy from Mr. Cobb over there? Cousin, use what means you have!”

Blue eyes popped wide and the youth looked around at the blond man watching from across the room. “Oh,” Cillian said, as if he had forgotten that there was another present tonight he could scheme to catch. Marcus did not miss that the debutant’s eyes flicked to the opposite corner before he swallowed and said, “Right,” and went over to Mr. Cobb.

Discreetly, Marcus examined the far corner. Dr. Guern stood talking to John, and looked away quickly when he saw Marcus watching. Breathless, Marcus knew not if it was his imagination that had him believing Cillian was exercising great control not to look over there again.

“He is taking the rejection rather well,” Sherlock was saying to Will. The pair watched Cillian like hawks as Cobb engaged him in conversation.

“Cillian is stronger than he looks,” Marcus commented, “you do not give him credit—“

“Excuse me,” Esca interrupted their conversation from the side. Marcus and Will turned their heads to engage him, but Sherlock had eyes only for his protégée’s progress with Mr. Cobb.

Esca wore a grin that was quite smug. “Dear,” he greeted, taking Marcus’ hand, “I was wondering if you would take a turn with me through the garden?”

“Of course,” Marcus said and excused himself.

Marcus’ hand was placed in the crook of Esca’s elbow and when they were out of the crowd, Esca leaned over and whispered through his grin, “I have reached the bottom of it.”

“Oh?”

“Quite,” Esca was smirking.

“Well, out with it!”

“As you know, prior to your broken confinement, many believed that you are _not_ fortunate and that by extent I am, shall we say _the ill-fated_ kind of lover of men, much like a certain acquaintance of yours?”

Marcus cleared his throat, said, “What of him?”

“Only that you must stop to consider that in a pair of discreet men such as that, there would be one taking on the role of the gentler sex, the very role your friend believed you to be so willingly undertaking the night you came with child. That is to say, some men prefer to be submissive even if it isn’t their gender to do so.”

Marcus stopped walking, turned to beam at Esca, “You seem to be speaking of _exactly_ the thought that was in my mind.”

“I’ll take a guess and declare that the secret you so honorably refused to yield is that the Commandeer is not the only one in the marriage who is uninspired by his duties.”

Marcus tapped his nose. Will hadn’t said it, but he hadn’t need to. Marcus read it in the despair of Will’s tone, the hollowness of his declarations that he enjoyed intercourse; he did not find the act as exciting as it was promised to be.

Esca looked impish, “It was just relayed to me that it is simply Will’s tenacious devotion to _propriety_ which gives Norrington pause in remedying this situation himself. He doesn’t wish to offend by bringing it up. I believe all that is required now is for you, as Will’s friend, to assure him that reversing roles is acceptable. If you can do that by today, I’m willing to wager that by tomorrow, the two will be as love struck as newlyweds.”

“Convince him to take the role of… how am I supposed to do that?” Marcus asked.

Esca grinned, “Well I’m sure all it’ll take is for you to assure him you switch often enough. It worked for me to get Norrington to open up about his preferences.”

Marcus nearly swallowed his tongue. “You--“

Esca looked sheepish, “I did.” Then his face hardened and he looked rueful, “It was disheartening how quickly he believed me--no doubt it’s precisely what everyone thinks when they look at us.”

Marcus smirked at him, “But you’re forgetting, dear, that I’m as big as an elephant and clearly the submissive at least some of the time.”

Esca choked back his laughter and his voice was low and soft as he looked up at Marcus, “No, I have not forgotten…”

Marcus was lost in that stormy gaze when a presence beside them broke in with a jaunty, “What could the two of you be scheming about over here?” Sherlock looked wolfish, grey eyes sliding between the two of them.

“Scheming?” Esca asked amiably.

“Yes, scheming. I have never seen anything to look _more_ like scheming.”

“Never you mind, Sherlock,” Marcus said good-naturedly. “It is lords’ business.”

Sherlock huffed as if hit below the belt, and Marcus and Esca traded humored looks of victory. Sherlock shook a finger at them. “You had better watch it, Marcus. Or I will scheme for my Hamish to marry whatever noble is in _there_ just to have a claim to that kind of business.”

Marcus rubbed his distended belly affectionately as he barked with laughter and said, “I love Hamish dearly, but my husband has his heart set on a love match for our man cub, and I’m afraid he settles for absolutely nothing less than what he wants.”

Esca colored slightly but said, “That is the truth I’m afraid. And Sherlock will agree with me, won’t you? Are you not happy with your love match? How can we force our children into anything we have not suffered ourselves?”

“Good philosophy, and cleverly put, too. Why is that clever—ah, I know, it suggests love matches are their own special kind of hell. Yes...” Sherlock chuckled and looked ardently over at John and then took a deep breath, surfacing from something. His thin, devilish smile returned. “They are aren’t they?”

“Amen,” Esca said. Marcus looked down, dimples gauged into his smooth cheeks, as he was half certain Esca was not play-acting.

|||

The next chance Marcus had to broach the subject with Will was a week later at the Watson residence. The carriage ride there had stopped traffic as people stopped to stare at the bloated, Changed man operating about the village as if he were not displaying the intimate conditions of a marriage. Having made an attempt at floral with intermediate results, Marcus was for a time avoiding fashion adventures. Today’s suit was meant to level off his rising fame as a lord of fashion, give him time to collect his resources and deliver a more spectacular ensemble later when needed, as well as disguise his puffy shape. He wore traditional black with white and the barest touch of yellow on the silk lining. Though the others were eager to be off for their outing, Marcus’ spirit had been subdued by the awkward attention. He would rather they had stayed in, but his pride did not allow the defeatist request.

As soon as Sherlock and Cillian had gone off through the house in search of a missing glove, Marcus turned to his friend. “Will, I’ve been turning what we spoke of the other day around in my mind and I feel obliged to reveal to you some matters of my own private life that I think will help you.”

“Oh?”

Marcus cleared his throat, “You admitted that you feel like you cannot inspire your husband. Why do you think that?”

Will looked lamentable, nodded sullenly. “He has not requested me to fulfill my duties because I cannot produce reactions that are pleasing to him. But I cannot help it; I am simply _uncomfortable_ in the position.”

“Well,” Marcus trailed off, at a loss as to where to start. When Will looked to him, he spoke. “In my experience, the dominate role is an extremely effective way of pleasing the young Lord Cunoval.”

Will visibly choked and looked all about the area, but never directly at Marcus again. “You do-- truly? Because Sherlock once likened our kind in that role to using a cricket bat to churn butter, as in it gets a job done but it is in no way as enjoyable as the intended use.”

The comparison set Marcus to snickering for several minutes, and Will bore the mother man’s silly mood with the same kind of tired grace he used with Sherlock every day. When the tickle was over, and he was free to talk again, Will said, “and it will not give me a child any more effectively, so what is the point?”

“The point, Willy? The point is to be happy with your husband!”

He shook his head. Marcus thumped him on the chest, “And a child _will_ come of it. Look at me. This happened in a tumble very much like the one I speak of,” he lied. “And I don’t believe I have to actually admit it was before the wedding, but back then Conval saw it safer for us to switch roles, and so we did, but then he became so inspired….”

Marcus could not believe how easily this lie came to him. It sounded like a solid truth as it hung in the air between them. Will looked absolutely scandalized to hear such a story, and Marcus himself was burning hot in his ears, and in his lap as well from such a notion. … His own words had painted an image, blurring real memories, so that in his mind’s eye, he saw Esca pinned beneath him in his old room at Calleva, gasping and moaning as Marcus filled him--he promptly crossed his legs and thanked God for the long tablecloth.

He cleared his throat, and his mind, leaving nothing but a note to let Esca in on this little lie, so that he would not expose their grand illusion with a contradicting story. Not that Marcus believed for a second Will Norrington would dare repeat a word of this to anyone else.

“I do not see the harm in trying it.” Marcus said, “It is just a game, as married folk are allowed to play. There is no shame in that.”

“Right. Well....” Will sat rigid in his seat as if determined to survive the most awkward conversation of his life. But after a moment of inner reflection, his face softened, and the corners of his mouth twitched. Then he glanced at his friend and said sincerely, “Thank you, Marcus. I will consider it.”


	14. The Affirmation of Life and Other Important Things

The month was October, Marcus’ birth month. In just a few short days, he would be 33 years of age. He pondered this as he readied himself for bed, his mind going back to his last birthday. Things had been so different then. He’d been in the regiment, in the Middle East. Liathan had insisted on drinking profusely, gambling, and then night swimming. Marcus couldn’t have known it then, but just a handful of days following that night of fun, a ball would slam into his leg and shatter the illusions of his life.

The sound of his bedroom door opening under the abrupt force of Esca’s hand broke Marcus from his thoughts.

“Did you see them today?” Marcus asked over the changing screen by way of greeting. They had attended a party during the day in which Mr. James Norrington and his fortunate husband had not taken their eyes off each other.

Marcus peeked from behind the screen and saw Esca’s grin as the man answered, “I did. They were radiant.” He climbed into the bed. Marcus abandoned what he’d been up to during his reminiscence of the past and wiggled into his night shirt. He had been standing naked in front of his mirror, his stomach rather like a small melon--a perfect sphere stuck to where all those hard, flat aesthetically pleasing ridges of muscle had been. He’d been examining the phenomenon of his belly button sticking outward, a pucker of skin rising like a jacket button.

Climbing into bed next to Esca, he immediately started moving around all the pillows to make his swollen body more comfortable. He ended up leaving Esca with only one cushion, but the nobleman said nothing of it.

When the candle went out, Marcus drew in a deep breath and released it in deepest comfort. He wondered again how the additional weight of another person could so greatly alter a bed. He opened his mouth to inquire as much but just then something in his stomach _moved_ and he felt a distinctive inward punch.

“What is it?” Esca sat up, pure alarm. Marcus held the melon, heart racing with joy, and he could not find his voice to answer. His child had just moved inside of him, full of life and strength. His eyes filled with water, and he silently spoke to the baby, encouraging him to kick again.

Suddenly the silver light of the moon filled the room. Alarmed that Marcus had not answered, Esca had left the bed and opened the curtains in favor of fumbling with matches and candles. Marcus saw Esca washed in the soft light as he turned around, “What is it, Marcus? Are you well?” He saw Marcus was holding his stomach and rushed back to the bed, climbing in, reaching for him.

“--Yes,” Marcus answered, voice filled with laughter, “Yes. Oh, Esca. He--he _moved_!”

“The baby?”

“Yes!” Marcus cried and then he gasped as a little foot connected with his palm. “He’s kicking me!”

He grabbed Esca’s hand and put it where his had been. They sat in a long silence; the only sounds their slightly labored breaths of anticipation. Marcus was just starting to think it would not happen again and had started noticing the small bones of Esca’s hand flexing ever so slightly under his palm, the way the moonlight played in that bronze hair, his ears sticking out, and the width of his shoulders in his oversized night shirt, when—

“Good lord!” Esca cried as the little foot kicked out once more, a definite nudge under his hand. Marcus started laughing.

“It feels so…”

“Strange?”

“Yes, but also good,” Marcus confessed. The baby kicked again and they both gave an exclamation, “He is so strong!” Marcus praised.

“Like his sammy,” Esca said kindly. Marcus was surprised when Esca took his hand away. He felt something akin to disappoint. Esca laid back and Marcus did the same. The curtains remained open and through the window panes, Marcus could see the stars.

“What miracles children are,” Esca murmured. Marcus made a sound of agreement and then a bark of laughter, “And he just kicked again! He’s agreeing with you.”

Laughing, Esca moved closer and his arm went over Marcus’ side, his hand back on his stomach. He felt the baby’s next two rapid kicks, “He is a rowdy rascal, isn’t he?”

When Marcus shifted his head, he found Esca’s lips close to his and without a single thought more, he pressed their mouths together, reaching up to hold Esca’s head in place to ensure a firm kiss. No doubt in shock, Esca was unresponsive for a moment, but then he moved against Marcus and Marcus opened his mouth to let him in.

Fire, the same Marcus had glimpsed in Esca during their short engagement, surged out of him now as he licked into Marcus’ mouth and sound escaped him, a low thin moan. Marcus heard in the distinct note the sound of desperation. Sudden lightening cracked through his bones; he knew what Esca wanted, and he knew how to give it to him, how to please him. It would be easy. It would be fun. And it would make Esca, his husband, his friend and partner through life forevermore, so happy.

The idea of being the greatest source of happiness in Esca’s life was so agreeable to Marcus that it shocked his heart, made his lungs constrict. A single thought rang in Marcus’ mind. _Esca deserves this_.

Marcus rolled onto his back, pulling the man over him and wrapping his arms around him. The slope of Esca’s lower back was firm and below that the flesh of his buttocks fit Marcus’ big hands perfectly when he pulled Esca between his thighs, flush against him. The baby was cradled—protected—between them in Marcus’s melon and Esca caressed the curvature tenderly.

He broke their lips apart, but did not go far. Their noses were still bumping and his fingers slid into Marcus’s hair as he said, breathless, “Oh, Marcus, how I’ve--” and then he was kissing him again, hard and deeply. Marcus was taken by the sheer power of the kiss and below through the thin fabric of their night shirts, he felt Esca’s cock swelling to press hot and hard against him.

The baby started kicking wildly as Marcus’ heart rate climbed and the blood pounded through his body, rushed down to make Marcus’ cock rise to Esca’s. His mind was racing. Esca wanted this, needed it quite desperately if Marcus was any judge. He was a little worried about the baby, but he was ready to be carried away on the wings of a pleasure he had only felt once but had never forgotten…

When their lips parted, they were both breathing heavily and Esca lipped a trail down Marcus’ jaw to his neck and then back to his mouth, and he moved against Marcus. The friction and pleasure of it pulled gasps from them both.

“My dearest, at last,” Esca breathed, eyes bright, voice giddy and breathless, “at last, at last,” he repeated with kisses between, “I have prayed for your heart to turn to me and at last—oh, _darling_ …” Esca’s mouth was warm and wet and supple against Marcus’ skin, languid kisses full of worshipful energy.

But Marcus found himself suddenly removed from the passion. First, it struck Marcus as a tremendous leap of assumptions for Esca to conclude that Marcus kissing him was an act of love. After all, the man _knew_ of Marcus’ purely base desires brought on by the pregnancy. Secondly, the mention of prayer reminded Marcus of his last plea to God Almighty and it had been the same as ever of late. To never repeat the same mistake twice.

And yet there he was, about to have intercourse with a man while allowing that man to believe him to be someone else. To sin in such a way could perhaps be forgiven once. But twice?

Esca caught on to Marcus’ distress and became absolutely still above him, looking down with the customary hard expression shaping his face into a scowl of confusion. “What is the matter?”

Will Norrington’s words about a husband’s duty sent an already overly confused Marcus into a fit of guilt for thinking about stopping now, when the nobleman’s arousal was so prominent. Putting an end to this, declaring Esca a fool for assuming love, such things would surely turn the man bitter towards Marcus’ very presence.

“Nothing,” Marcus lied, lifting his head for more kisses. It would be safe enough to go through with this—for they were married after all; and thus stuck together—

“Marcus—“Esca began but Marcus caught his mouth in a firm kiss. He would rather Esca not speak—he would like the frenzy to begin, so that he need not even think for a time. He sent a vague kind of prayer towards the heavens that God forgive him this, where he went against all he’d previously vowed. But surely this would be better? A happy husband made for a happy home; Marcus and his child would never fear the Lord Cunoval or regret his existence in their lives if Esca smiled every time he saw them.

All at once, Marcus was alone on his side of the bed. The nobleman’s silhouette against the windows sat rigidly on the side of the bed, and shook its head. “Marcus,” he said with a fury that was familiar from their wedding night. But this anger was viciously contained. “I must ask you to never, _ever_ do as you have just done again, do you understand me?”

“What have I done?”

“You have led me on, again, s’am. That kind of thing must end. Immediately. No more games.”

“It wasn’t a game.”

“Then what was it? Were you not repulsed by me just now, but said nothing in order to complete your role as the dutiful fortunate lord?”

Marcus was silenced; the very idea that someone as wondrous as Esca believed himself repulsive in the eyes of another hurt Marcus’ heart. He choked and could not speak. Esca stood and put on his robe.

“Where are you going?” the fortunate man croaked.

Esca stopped at the door and sighed. “Marcus, your Changing condition and our sleeping habits have confused you, but your heart has not budged an inch.”

This didn’t seem altogether true. Marcus did enjoy his company quite a bit more than in the beginning… and then there had been the urge, the overwhelming desire to please Esca in whatever way it took. Marcus had suffered such spells frequently when around Liathan. Therefore, he had to harbor at least some brand of affection for the wide-eared and reclusive heir to Brigantes. Yet Esca’s resolve and his own cowardice allowed Marcus to remain quiet, passive in the face of the accusation.

“I am returning to my room so that we may clear the air.”

Silently, Esca disappeared into the dark hallways. Marcus shifted in the big empty bed and did not sleep the rest of the night. He lay in the star-bright bed, cold without the warmth of another, and did nothing to quell the burning itch in his flesh, for he felt he did not deserve it. He let it wither under the ice of self-loathing as he contemplated his actions.

The kiss had been perfectly absurd, he knew not how he could have thought it a good idea—only he had not thought at all, not a single wit beyond the comfort of being so close to another and turning toward that comfort as one might a warm beam of sunshine. Indeed, if not for Esca’s quavering declaration of love, then, mindless, nothing could have stopped them joining in flesh and drowning together in the untold wonders of sex. Instead, the absurd assumption had made Marcus realize the implied promise of his actions.

It was a dispiriting thought. That among the decent intercourse must mean love. Why must it? Helping one another to quell those natural urges suffered by all men was what husbands were meant to do. Could not he and Esca perform their duties without love?

Marcus inhaled deeply, avoiding the enticing thought of exploring the wonders of sex with Esca every night without it meaning anything beyond comradeship, for such a thing was wholly impossible—equal to a child’s wish to play with fire without getting burned.

At last, Marcus found sleep in the fresh, empty hours of the morning and arrived at breakfast the next day to learn that Esca had refused to appear and had ordered a tray instead. Marcus followed the tray up, not even bothering to knock, for he did not intended to garner permission to have this conversation.

He found Esca barely dressed, sprawled on the bed with the curtains closed as if the man had given up on the day before even meeting with it. Cottia put down the tray, gave her master a worried glance, and then rested warm grey eyes on Marcus. In her expression was the maternal command to fix whatever was wrong.

Marcus inclined his head to her and she curtsied. In the silence of her departure, Marcus’ voice rang sure and strong,

“Esca.”

The nobleman flinched, noticing him in the room for the first time. “Oh—please—“

“I will not go,” Marcus countered before the request was even made of him. “We must discuss what happened.”

With his eyes screwed shut, Esca looked like a man waiting for the sky to fall down around his protruding ears. Marcus had a sudden, ringing sense of empathy, for had he confessed his love to Liathan and found it unreciprocated then he surely would have wished for the earth to open and swallow him whole.

Now less forceful about it, Marcus softened into a mien of apology. “I can easily imagine why you will not come down stairs. I should not have barged in like this, only I have waited all night to tell you and I do not wish to put it off another moment—Cunoval, last night....last night was a truly exceptional experience.”

It seemed Esca could not find the strength to look at him. His usually hard gaze could not lift from the floorboards under Marcus’ buckled shoes and he spoke as if each word had to squeeze past a knot in his throat. “Of course it would be. Twas the first sign of life from the child you carry.” He tried to smile, but the expression looked tepid and faded fast.

Marcus all but waved the miracle of life aside with one massive swat of his hand. “Not that part. I speak of my what was borne of my abhorrent behavior—you will agree of how atrocious it was when I better explain my motives. May I?”

Esca, still without looking directly at him, gave a miserable shrug, reaching for the toast on the tray. Marcus began to pace the length of the room as he ordered his thoughts on the matter for proper elocution.

“The fact is, Cunoval—I would have kissed anyone holding me as you were. To be in my condition and alone…my body craves such shocking things; often I find my thoughts are lingering on the truly alarming. My action last night was mindless; it did not occur to me what it would look like from an outsider’s perspective. I apologize for leading you on, my friend. It was unintentional at the start—which brings me to the heart of my crime. My mistake lay in not stopping the moment I realized you had the wrong impression. I knew it was wrong to continue, but I did not stop it. It was then I truly led you on, and I apologize.

“I come now to the exceptional experience. In my living memory, last night was the first instance that I ever recognized anything resembling a moral code within myself. True, I did trample it like a new sprout just pushed through the soil, but its existence is now known. I shall from this day forth endeavor to fortify these new principles until they cannot be so easily vanquished, but that will take work, and in the meantime, do not love me.”

The command made Esca stop chewing instantly, and he let drop the hand holding his neat fold of bacon. Marcus turned his back on the otherwise silent confirmation that he had another heart on a tether. “I do not even know why you do. You should not want me— _me_ a preposterous creature to be sure. A wretched person at heart. Despicable—no, I am,” he insisted when Esca began to interrupt. “In this very way (by behaving as another wished) I have once already stolen the heart of a good man and, like my green sprout, I trampled that heart at the first opportunity to obtain something _I_ wanted.” His voice caught and he cleared his throat, but his eyes still burned with the need to shed some tears at the thought of the damage he had done to this oldest friend. “It is a blessing you caught onto my games—on our wedding night and last—for you deserve far better than me.”

Esca’s eyes at last landed on him, noting the honesty in Marcus’ face in one quick flicker. Then to the embroidery on the hems of Marcus’ trousers, “….thank you, Marcus,” he said, “A much needed clarification and insight into your worldly mind.”

Silence fell in the bedroom, and in the echo of the complimentary words, Marcus was left to marvel at how this grown man has known nothing but these walls the whole of his life. To have reached such a mature age without having seen more than London….

“Won’t you have breakfast with me now? Come, I will tell you all about the world as I have seen it. Italy. North Africa. India.”

“Another time. I would like the morning to myself, if you please. There is a great deal to think about.”

Marcus thought he understood. Esca would have to, for the second time, talk himself out of love with him. Feeling fond of the pure-hearted noble, Marcus smiled emphatically, “It was never me. I was only playing the part of a dutiful husband…. If you do not care to have a rude awakening in ten or fifteen years when I break out of the role set to me, I shall continue to please you in such a way if you wish. Which way do you prefer?”

Esca starred at the breakfast tray. Marcus did not think he heard. “Esca?”

“I’m thinking,” he replied shortly, drawing an amused laugh from Marcus, who had not meant to give a literal choice on the matter. He offered his opinion freely, “It will be best to have all major disagreements between us sorted out now, before the child is born. I do not want him to live in a house full of fear and uncertainty, or anger and hatred simply because we cannot trust one another.”

Esca pulled on his whiskers, surveying Marcus head to toe. Then he smiled a true smile. “Then let it be so. I shall have honest affection or none at all. Anyway, as I understand it, the wait will be worth it.”

“Speaking from experience—yes it is. Had I won the prince on the first night I wanted him then this child would have been the product of fumbling, drunken curiosity.”

Esca snickered.

|||

The following morning, Esca’s trusty man Lestrade arrived at breakfast to announce with glowing eyes that at last, after traveling over all of Great Britain “he had found it.”

“Oh,” fell out of Esca so involuntarily that Marcus knew at once that he had managed to forget about this secret quest. The nobleman sprang to his feet, thanked Lestrade for his hard work, and then disappeared with him to “have a look.” This left Marcus sitting over his third bowl of porridge in bafflement whilst Dr. Guern helped himself to the newspaper that Esca had abandoned.

“What on earth was that about?” Marcus inquired.

Dr. Guern’s beard twitched with his smile. “Estate business.”

“I am not convinced. I have heard nothing of Lestrade’s quest, and Esca fills me in on _all_ estate business; it is sometimes the only thing that will lull me to sleep at night,” Marcus said with a grin.

Guern chuckled. “Then perhaps he will explain tonight.”

“You know something,” Marcus accused.

“I have over heard something,” the doctor teased. Marcus narrowed his eyes at the man but was saved from making threats when Esca burst back into the room. He strode confidently to Marcus chair and offered a hand. “I’ve a surprise for you… dear,” he said pointedly. Marcus looked at the determination glinting in Esca’s eye to see his act through regardless of his current vulnerability.

Marcus nearly swallowed his tongue. “What is it, dear?” he asked, wary of the endearment Esca used but repeating it for lack of a better choice. Whatever waited for him outside was meant to be a gift from a doting husband to his excited fortunate groom. Esca grinned wickedly. “You must come with me. It is a present too big to fit in the house.”

Apprehension seized Marcus stomach. Whatever this surprise was, Esca had intended it for a different Marcus, not the cad from the other night who plucked at heart strings so carelessly. He stood slowly, and ignored the way everyone’s eyes went immediately to his heavy stomach. As if the child’s new movements had prompted a growth spurt, Marcus’ stomach had swelled significantly overnight, and he now felt like he had a pumpkin under his vest. For the first time in his life when he looked straight down he could not see his toes, or his manhood if he was naked, and he harbored a mixture of horror and anger for it.

As a self-conscious hippopotamus might do, Marcus exited the room to glimpse upon this great surprise. He thought he might hate surprises.

Outside, the light shifted continually as clouds fought the sun. Squinting in the light and shivering against a cool breeze, Marcus paused and Esca politely offered to help him down the front steps, for which Marcus became grateful when he discovered that he was top heavy.

“What is this about?” Marcus asked with a repressed groan. It was chill out, and Marcus’ swollen feet were not up to a journey anyplace on foot.

Esca took a deep breath and then smiled. “I want you to think about that question, Marcus. Because I’m sure you already know the answer. What is it that I am always excited about?”

“Horses?” Marcus asked, and Esca steered him toward the stables. Marcus tried to hide his disappointment—this is precisely why he hated surprises—and Esca laughed, onto him. “Just wait. We haven’t got to the really interesting part yet.”

They walked down to the stables and Marcus had begun to sweat despite the crisp autumn air by the time they reached the destination. His feet hurt, and his back was starting to protest as well. He pushed a hand into his lower spine and panted, “Just show me already, Esca!”

“Yes, dear,” Esca said dryly, bounding away into the building and one of the many stalls. There were horse noises and then Esca pulled a massive stallion out into the sunlight. It was a gorgeous steed, Marcus had to give credit; coal black and _powerful_.

“You get to name him,” Esca announced. Marcus smiled tightly at the severity of the anit-climax. He would have to remember never to get excited over one of his dear husband’s surprises ever again. “But you must think carefully, it must be a name you’ll like for the rest of your life, because he is also yours.”

That made it a little better, but still. Marcus had no need of a horse. Guern might possibly lecture him for even standing this near an animal that could knock him down. But Esca was not done. He still had that superior smile that made Marcus nervous.

“You will also get all the foals he births.”

Marcus took a full step back from the animal and didn’t take his breath with him. “This is a...?” he choked.

“I will breed him with our finest,” Esca promised. “His foals will sell at a high price, if you wish to part with any of them. If not, then we will have a herd fit for any king’s army.”

Marcus’ eyes watered a little, and he approached the male-mother-horse carefully and gave his neck a good rubbing. The horse snorted and stepped to the side, and Marcus looked into the animal’s eyes. The stallion looked back, ears pricked down at him, and something passed through Marcus. Just a whimsical fancy—surely the animal did not recognize him as a kindred spirit? Marcus felt infinitely less alone, and even less like a hippopotamus next to the beast.

He threw his arms around the strong neck. The horse was proof that Esca thought of him when he was out of sight, that Esca heard him when he spoke… _tis lonely_ , Marcus had once confessed about being the only large mother man… and then Esca had searched the world to find him what he needed.

Marcus felt, in this moment, a part of himself he’d been sure had died with Liathan’s brutal words of honesty. It was a rush that had origins in his chest—most familiar to him after so many years at Liathan’s side; he knew well what it was to be silently moved by a gesture, a word, a touch. To feel a wave under his skin, half crippling and at once granting wings.

“Thank you, Esca,” he breathed. He took a moment to compose himself. Again, the action was nothing new to him. For the very first time, he was grateful for the twelve torturous years he had spent pining after Liathan. It had taught him to hold silence with strength. Now was not the time to be overly agreeable with Esca; not after the events of yesterday.

The horse breathed down his arm and lipped his palm, looking for a treat. Marcus wished he had grabbed an apple. Esca had. He passed it to Marcus so he could present the gift.

“I don’t know what to name him,” Marcus said as the horse munched away. “I can’t even decide what to name my baby.”

“Esca Cunoval the second, obviously,” was the lord’s prompt reply. Marcus laughed before he realized that Esca wasn’t entirely joking.

“Why not?” the nobleman asked. “He is to pass as my son.”

Marcus closed his mouth. At length, he thought of a reason less stinging than _I am not naming my son_ Esca _, Cunoval_. “I’ve formed a bit of an attachment to Charles, actually. I keep coming back to it...”

“Charles. As in the Sir Darwin you’re always reading?”

Marcus shrugged. Esca took a deep breath and looked at the horse. “Well, he does have that aristocratic something about him, doesn’t he?”

Scowling playfully, Marcus swung a thick hand at the horseman’s head as if to cuff his ear. “I meant the baby!”

“I know, I know....” Esca ducked the blow, looked the animal over and then sagged with defeat. “Oh, but I’ve went and fallen in love with it for him. Charles. He looks it, doesn’t he, Marcus? Just look. Sir Charles.”

The horse’s ears pricked forward. Esca grinned. “Did you see that? I think he’s taken to it, too!”

“Lord in heaven,” Marcus breathed. He eyed the animal. “Sir Charles,” he said.

The horse stepped forward.

“I tell you, dear, he was a Charles in a past life!”

Marcus groaned. “Alright! Fine! You can have the name, Sir Charles. Take it, it’s yours, you big brute!”

Esca laughed. Marcus joined him, and gave the horse a loving pat. He _was_ a Sir Charles, as noble as anyone with a knighthood. Marcus crossed his arms over his distended stomach. “But for the baby I am keeping any form of our names off the table,” he said resolutely.

“If you insist, dear,” Esca said primly. Then he chuckled when Marcus hugged the animal again, “I have softened your opinion of horses with this one.”

“So you have,” Marcus agreed.

|||

Cillian was nearly rendered breathless after Marcus related the story of the kind gift from his husband. His reaction surprised Marcus, who still managed to be thrown by Cillian’s lovely mannerisms in the middle of his closest ring of friends.

Sherlock and Will were giving him kind, happy smiles, over their projects—Sherlock, waxing his violin bow, Will mixing his paint—but Cillian’s smile was most sincere as he ignored the sheet of conjugated French verbs in front of him. “Oh, you must be so happy to have such a thoughtful man to share your life with.”

“With which to share your life!” Sherlock corrected, and then said it in French, which Cillian had to repeat.

Ignoring the grammar and French lesson, Marcus nodded in agreement, not wishing to gush about Esca’s gift, for that would be counterproductive to his goal of staying level headed and not getting swept up in pleasing Esca by any means necessary.

“I’m only eager to have this child out of me so that I can ride once more,” Marcus said easily, to change the subject; no need to worry about impropriety here, “I’m so _bored_ all the time!”

His pastime of refurnishing the house had given way to building a superlative wardrobe, but now both were complete and Marcus knew not where to turn next.

“If you are bored, why not help his Lordship in his business affairs?” Will suggested, adding the white to his red paint to make sunset pink. Marcus was sure that his friend would not have made this suggestion before he started switching roles with his husband.

Since then, Will had been rather more mannish than Marcus had ever seen the properly trained-to-be-soft fortunate gentleman. It did not surprise anyone that he would now suggest Marcus actually take part in the running of Brigantes Abbey.

“Do one better than that,” Sherlock was quick to say before Marcus could make a reply to his suggestion, “and convince that husband of yours to hire a steward like any self-respecting nobleman would do, so that he may join you in Society with more regularity. It’s not as if the estate cannot afford a steward—not with your money.”

“Lord Esca loathes Society as you well know,” Marcus answered easily. “Each of those few appearances he made these past months simply _exhausted_ him. Society will have to wait until he has the energy again.”

“Bullocks to Society, then. At least with a steward he would be free to bugger you as often as you like. Take my word, the Changes will have you needing him soon.”

Cillian dunked behind a hand to giggle, not looking at Marcus, who was himself blushing slightly. His need was indeed reaching astounding levels these days, and Guern’s prescription of regular release already had Marcus seeing to himself at least twice a day. If it grew worse than this, then he would be in dire trouble indeed. Will sighed lamentably and his reprimand about speaking thusly in front of an unmarried fortunate was only half-hearted.

Grinning, Sherlock asked Cillian—in French—which song written by a French composer he should play and Cillian’s answer was soft and unfamiliar to Marcus. But Sherlock praised his choice and began to play.

Will was finished mixing his paint and consulted Marcus on if he should paint the sunset on the biscuit bowl or the gravy boat. Marcus idly picked one and watched in silent thought as his friends worked. They had given him much to consider. He did not know why he should not help Esca run the estate—surely even pregnant men could buy or sell a thoroughbred…. A stinging thought was that Esca thought it was a job he was incapable of performing.

To avoid thinking more on the subject, he broke into Cillian’s French lesson to ask after the progress of Cillian’s search for a husband.

It was at this point that Sherlock became angry, swiping his bow sharply through the air, and announced that Cillian evidently did not want to get married and leave the squalor of his farm.

“I do, you know I do!”

“I wouldn’t know it, the way you’ve turned away every suitor I’ve found for you!”

“He hasn’t turned them away, Sherlock, _Christ_!” Will hissed as if Cillian could not hear. The youth sat with his eyes downcast, quietly ashamed. Marcus sighed inwardly. He had expected this since he had noticed the way those china blue eyes always tracked Guern if he was in sight.

Of course Cillian would never speak up about his attraction to the doctor, and even if he did, Sherlock would forbid it. A man who was not a mother man but restricted his practice to them was far too eccentric and not nearly rich enough for Sherlock’s approval.

Bugger Sherlock’s approval.

“Alright, gentlemen,” Marcus announced—breaking into Sherlock’s rant and Will’s defense for Cillian, “a new approach to finding our beautiful young companion a husband has just occurred to me!”

Sherlock forced himself too look only mildly interested; this was, after all, his show, and he liked all the ideas to be his.

“You do agree he is exceptionally beautiful?” Marcus asked. Cillian blushed and the others urged Marcus to get to his point. “Cillian, my friend, how do you feel about gowns?”

There was a pause.

“Gowns?” Cillian echoed and his eyes darted around. Clearly he feared this was a trap, a joke at his expense.

“Dresses, s’iss,” Marcus pressed, “Women’s clothing, growing your hair out. We can take you to London once you have practiced your styles and mannerisms enough to pass. Plenty of Fortunate gentlemen with your beauty do it. The city is teeming with them. They _always_ find husbands.”

The silence made Marcus want to laugh. He had a feeling Cillian would never have a reason to be taken all the way to London. All it would take would be Guern to see him once, for Marcus was sure that such were the big doctor’s tastes; he had defended men in dresses a bit too fiercely for it to be the simple love of a son from one.

Will was the first to speak. “Well, taking the drastic measure does seem to be your forte as far as giving advice goes, Marcus, and it has worked so far. So, blast it all, I’m in!”

Marcus was studying Cillian, who looked lost, scared, unsure what to think.

Of course, Sherlock started laughing and then gave a very resolute sounding, “No.”

“Why not?” Marcus and Will asked simultaneously.

“How about this for starters? _None of us here knows a THING about dresses or the latest hairstyles for women_!”

“Goddammit, Sherly,” Will was beyond the breaking point, “about which do you care more, Cillian’s future or taking CREDIT for Cillian’s future?”

Marcus wanted to reach out and grip Will’s shoulder for a supportive shake, because it was about time someone had said it. Sherlock looked like he’d been slapped. He finally turned his eyes to Cillian, “Well, speak up, then. What do you think?”

Cillian’s eyes went round and he murmured about how he just didn’t know, shaking his head.

“There, you see, he doesn’t want to.” Sherlock said.

“He says he doesn’t know, there’s a difference!” Marcus snapped, then to the youth, “Cillian, my friend, do not lie to me,” Marcus set his gaze directly on him, “You like it when people speak of your beauty. I see the way it lights you up. As a woman, that’s all anyone will have to say about you.”

“PRECISELY THE PROBLEM!” Sherlock roared, “There is more to him than his looks!”

“Which we and anyone else who knows him can attest to as the truth,” Will said, “But that does not stop him from enjoying being the belle of the ball, does it? Why shouldn’t he do as he pleases?”

“Are we still talking about Cillian’s outrageous needs to be happy or your own, _William_?” Sherlock shot back.

Flaring with anger, Will practically shouted, “I’m just saying he deserves to do whatever feels right to him!”

“Oh, Willy, you’ve become so _boring_ now that you’re a topper, Christ, I can scarcely talk to you!”

Marcus finally managed to get to his feet and insert himself between them, “That’s enough.”

Sherlock’s eyes were ice cold when they turned to Marcus, and he practically hissed, “This is _your_ doing _._ ”

“Excuse me?”

“First you corrupt Will and now you’re suggesting Cillian put on a DRESS?”

“Corrupt me?” Will cut in, “He _helped_ me, Sherlock. You know he did, you’re just sorry it wasn’t your idea!”

“You will never get a child this way, Will!” Sherlock snapped, “And Cillian will never get a husband if he’s making a fool of himself in a dress!”

“Sherlock,” Marcus warned but Sherlock Watson was already out of the room, then the townhouse all together.

Marcus and Will looked at each other and sighed. Cillian spoke up softly, “I don’t want you all to fight because of me.”

“It’s not you,” Marcus promised. Cillian did not look convinced but after a long while, he licked his lips and asked tentatively, “But did you mean it? Would I truly be beautiful in a gown?”

Glancing at Will, Marcus shared a smile with the man before saying, “Yes, definitely.”


	15. The Fairest In the County

Esca’s hand covered Marcus’ beside his dinner plate. When Marcus looked up, he saw concern knitting Esca’s brow. “Is anything the matter?” he asked.

“Only a spot of bother between myself and Sherly,” Marcus waved a hand rather prettily without noticing, laughing shortly at himself. He never would have imagined he’d fall into a life of such social dramas.

Esca’s eyebrows went up, the corner of his mouth quirked, “Uh-oh. The name of Sherly Watson never bodes well in any situation.”

Marcus could not help but smile at this and sighed, “He’s just angry with me, I think, for taking from him his leadership in the group.”

“Ah,” Esca tapped his nose with a wink, “Struggle for the title of alpha among the saters, eh?”

“I’m afraid he does see it that way, yes. But I cannot help it if I just understand what people are feeling better than he does. It’s clear that Cillian is not happy with Sherly’s campaigns to find him a husband—that he is quite capable of choosing for himself. Sherly is worried my own attempts to empower Cillian will actually work, which they most likely will because I’m not _selfish_ like he is--”

“Yes, dear, leave it at that,” Esca advised with a chuckle, cutting in before Marcus had worked himself into a true bother about it. Marcus drew in a deep breath and laughed at himself, shook his head as if to clear it.

Esca looked amused and returned to eating. Marcus did as well and then another aspect of his last visit with his friends came to mind. After thinking it over through the night, he had decided that he would rather not ask Esca to hire a steward. That would only result in seeing more of Esca, which—while a part of him desired—a deeper part of himself advised against.

It would be easier to keep a level head through the short remainder of his Change if Esca stayed out with his horses or trapped behind his desk or out on errands for the better part of any day.

And, if truth be told, Marcus rather liked the idea of co-running an estate such as this. He had always enjoyed the benefits of making such money without ever having learned _how_ it was done. So he had decided to ask for a share of the work to fill his listless hours. It could do nothing but strengthen their friendship.

He inquired after the estate and its business, adding, “If there is anything I could do to help, I’d be happy to do it. I need an occupation.”

Esca frowned at him, “Help?”

“In the business side of things,” Marcus clarified, “You’re always so busy. Perhaps we could share the workload.”

Esca took a long drink and placed the glass beside his plate, licked his lips and said, “The baby is too near. You shouldn’t be dashing about as much as all of that.”

While this was true, Marcus did not like it as an answer—it was as if Esca was not at all willing to share his work, as if Esca thought the fairer sex incapable of a man’s job despite Marcus being a decorated soldier—but before he could say as much the Old Man began coughing and did not seem able to stop. Alarmed, both Nurse Sasstica and Esca were up and at his side and Guern gently pulled Esca out of his way to attend to the patient.

He was taken to bed, hacking and wheezing the whole way, and Esca followed, pale. Marcus was slow waddling up the stairs, and he found Esca sitting at the side of the bed, the Old Man subdued with Guern taking his vitals.

After doing all he could, the doctor excused himself and the nurse slipped away into her adjourning room to leave Esca and Marcus at the bedside. Marcus put a hand on Esca’s shoulder, “We should let him rest.”

Esca did not move for a moment, then took his father’s hand. It roused the Old Man, who looked up blearily at him, “Cardoc,” he murmured, “where’s Alice?”

Esca sighed heavily, a wounded sound, and squeezed the hand, “No, it is me, father, It is Esca. Cardoc and Ewan and Mother are gone, remember?”

Marcus squeezed the shoulder and pulled, “Come, he must rest.”

Esca reluctantly let the hand go, bent and kissed the old wrinkled forehead, “I love you, Father.”

Outside in the hall, Marcus could not stand the sad droop in Esca’s strong shoulders, like he held the weight of the world. Nor did he like how despondent Esca seemed when he took Esca’s hand--usually it brightened him whenever Marcus initiated contact between them. So the mother man acted without thought, gave in to the urge to lighten the mood, and drew the smaller man against him in an embrace.

The baby kept the other body from being too close to Marcus, but Esca’s arms went around him at once and held on. Marcus, only remembering the pain of losing his own father, wished the Old Man’s health was better and would forever stay that way so that Esca would not lose anyone else. So that his list of those who were gone-- _Cardoc and Ewan and Mother are gone, remember?—_ would not grow. He pulled away only enough to tilt Esca’s face up and pressed their lips together.

He barely tasted Esca’s tongue then Esca was pushing him away. Marcus blinked, frowned at him and Esca gave him a searching look,

“What was that for, Marcus?”

With a slow drop, Marcus came to realize that Esca hoped for some soft declaration of love, and that providing it would be all too easy a thing to do. _I just wanted to, Esca._ And, oh, how the nobleman would smile up at him, a beaming smile--so handsome--and he would say such nice things and be so happy.

Yes, it would be so easy to bring that joy. Just a few words.

However, when Marcus closed his eyes—shutting out the hopeful glint in that silver gaze—he felt only the hard little body pressed against him and typical human compassion to one on the verge of losing a parent. Marcus gulped, “How inappropriate—forgive me.” He laughed, embarrassed as he released his friend.

“No—it was perfectly appropriate for husbands to--“ Flustered, Esca cut himself off with, “That is to say—“

“Yes,” Marcus interrupted, “but no, n-not us. I mean, you have become truly invaluable to me, but I do not think…” he trailed off with a motion between them as if to indicate their hearts.

“No?” Bless that poor, heartbroken look. Marcus nearly retracted his statement and confessed sentimental fondness right there, just to put an end to that look. But in a feat of resolve to remain  true to his new self-honesty, he answered,

“No. I’m sorry, Cunoval, but beyond friendship, no. I wanted to lighten your heavy mood. I could have done so in any number of other ways.”

“Yet you instinctually went for a kiss.” The tilt of Esca’s head was rather like when he was winning a game of chess against his father. A glint in his eye suggested he had to upper hand and consequently set Marcus at unease.

“I suppose I let my Change take the lead,” Marcus replied, attempting to laugh dismissively.

Esca did not join Marcus’ attempt of laughing it off. The nobleman nodded, tight lipped, tired eyes flicking closed, and his sigh was perhaps even more weary now that Marcus had confused him on top of his father’s ailing health. “Well…then…goodnight, Marcus.”

|||

Sherlock had had a point about none of Cillian’s mentors knowing a thing about women’s styles. So Marcus invited Harriet to Brigantes Abbey and put her to the task of taking the pink but grinning Cillian shopping for dresses and the wigs he would wear until his hair was at a manageable length. This task, the woman took to like a solider born to the fight. It only took a matter of days for Harriet to be satisfied enough to allow Marcus to host a ball. Officially, the party was in honor of his belated birthday. Unofficially it would be Cillian’s debut in a gown.

“A ball?” Esca asked, frowning at him, “Are you up to hosting a ball, dear?”

“I’m up for anything, _dear_ ,” Marcus snapped--they had recently disagreed again and he wasn’t finished letting the matter drop, “It’s this to hold my attention or the business of running half the estate.”

Esca returned to his paper with an indifferent laugh, “It’s not like we don’t have the room for a ball. Just don’t overwork yourself.”

Marcus pressed his fingernails into his palms but, for the sake of his mother and Cillian, did not argue or break anything.

A glance at Nurse Sasstica, tending to the old man nearby, showed Marcus that the distance between them—which had grown since that incident in the hallway the other night, made worse by this off hand way that Esca continued to emasculate him by refusing to share the work of the estate—was detectable by all.

|||

Two weeks later, the guests were arriving, and Will approached Marcus, who was in doubt over his choice of black silk waist coat over a black shirt—slimming, but rather too much like he was in mourning. Upon begging his friend for an opinion on the matter, the other fortunate eyed him analytically, clicking his teeth, and then he removed his own cravat—pink as the inside of a shell—and helped Marcus to replace his white one.

With his eye on the door as he worked with the fabric under Marcus’ chin, Will asked, “Do you think he’ll show up?”

They had invited Sherlock, of course, but had not heard a word from him since his abrupt departure that day. Marcus could not answer, but he secretly thrilled when he saw in the mirror over the mantel that Guern was not hiding away in his rooms for the occasion.

Thanks to some subtle maneuvering on Marcus’ end of things, the doctor had yet to know what Harriet and Cillian had been up to, and Marcus was excited to see his face when the transformed youth made his appearance.

The pink helped brighten his attire greatly and put Marcus back at ease. He was sending a footman to fetch his pink opal cufflinks, when Will tensed beside him and drew Marcus’ attention to Sherlock and John Watson making their way into the room.

John looked as kind and relaxed as ever, Sherlock looked strategically aloof, stunning in a black suit with a deep mauve cravat that matched the stitching on his shoes.

“Glad you have joined us,” Will said drily to him when they approached and Sherlock’s grey-green eyes flicked to him, narrowed imperceptibly, then darted around the room, “Where is Norrington?”

“He shipped out two days ago, which you would know if you cared.”

John sighed. With polite smiles all around and a peck to Sherlock’s cheek, the town doctor made excuses and extracted himself from the coming drama. Marcus wished he could do the same, but he brought it on so he should see it through.

“Sherly,” he said, he kept his voice lowered for the sake of the private topic, “Will is still the same friend you’ve always had. It matters not if he’ll never have a child or who takes credit for his current happiness. You are friends—brothers--and it is ridiculous to let anything get in the way of that.”

Sherlock pouted at Will, “I don’t know why you never told _me_ you were so unhappy.”

Will laughed, tying Marcus’ white cravat around his chin, “So you could tell the whole world? I preferred when you thought I was only unchangeable as opposed to undesired.”

Sherlock’s lips quirked, but he controlled it and then his eyes snapped to Marcus, regaining some coldness, “Cillian is _my_ cousin, not yours. _I_ know what’s best for him.”

“Do you?” Marcus asked kindly.

“Yes!” Sherlock hissed, “His beauty will not go to waste! He grew up in _squalor_! He deserves comfort! He can and _will_ use it to make an advantageous match!”

“Of course he can,” Will groaned, “ _Any_ match will raise him from that pitiful farm! We just want him to be _happy_. Don’t you?”

Sherlock stuck his chin stubbornly in the air, “I am still not convinced putting on a dress is what’s going to make him happy.”

“Maybe not,” Will said, “But he _wanted_ to at least try it, so we let him.”

Sherlock sighed, but allowed defeat. His eyes fell on Marcus’ neck, the pink fabric there and on down his whole person. He hummed in deep thought, an unsatisfied sound, “Slimming, but not quite far enough from funeral attire—haven’t you any links with more color?”

On perfect cue, the footman arrived then to deposit the opal into Marcus’ thankful hand. As he put them in, Sherlock dug from his own pockets a brooch; it was a fortunate cameo of pink opal. “You and I must have the same birthstone, Marcus; what luck.”

He pinned it to Marcus’ lapel and as he did so, Marcus blurted, “I find myself in doubt you ever dressed so prettily before I arrived here.”

“How right you are, Marcus,” Will snorted while Sherlock remained passive, “I could never get him to wear more color than blue or green; never mind anything with good stitching. Exquisite, shoes, by the way.” The last part added to Sherlock with a motion to his black and mauve shoes.

Sherlock’s answer was given as he focused on re-pinning the cameo in a straighter position, “I confess I always thought a man of my shoulder-breadth should never attempt to be fairer… I thought I was meant to be more like a man than anything else.” His eyes lifted up to meet Marcus’ steadily. “But you are the evidence of my ignorance, Marcus. Men such as ourselves can be bold in our fashions, if only we are brave enough.”

Moved, Marcus grasped Sherlock’s forearm and they smiled for a moment at one another before a sudden presence at his side drew Marcus’ attention in time to see Esca before he said, “The two of you have made up—I am glad. I did not like to see my Marcus so downcast.”

The gentle weight of Esca’s hand on the small of Marcus’ back made him feel warmer. But he was saved from himself when he spotted Harriet on the stairs, giving him the signal. He cleared his throat and strengthened his voice over the crowd, announced, “Ladies and gentleman, thank you for coming. We have a very special surprise before the dancing is to begin. He has already debuted, but we have reason to present him to you again—or, should I say, her? I give you the new Cillian Murphy, now and henceforth to be known as S’iss Kitty Murphy.”

Everyone looked up at the top of the staircase and Harriet moved aside and down swept--

“Good lord!” Sherlock breathed and took a step back, jaw slack as sound of surprise and awe erupted from the crowd.

Cillian was in a splendid gown of blue that made his eyes brighter than ever. Some kind of trick of the undergarments gave the appearance of cleavage. A dark wig was twisted up in braids; a fine chain glittered around his neck. He descended the stairs, radiant, graceful.

The crowd continued relentlessly with its oohs and awes and clapped with murmured praises.

Marcus clocked Guern over at the window, stone still and staring… then smiling softly…

Will gripped Marcus’ shoulder and shook him, and then elbowed Sherlock, demanding that he admit he was wrong. It was a testament to Cillian’s beauty that Sherlock conceded immediately, huffing, “I mean, good lord, he’s not looked at the floor _once_. He was always so shy!”

“He just needed something to make him feel brave,” Will said, “Before he couldn’t trust himself to be anything but a farm boy trying to get a husband. Now he knows he’s a true beauty.”

Sherlock snorted, turned and gripped Marcus’ hand, “I commend you, s’am. You’re idiot idea was precisely the ticket!”

Marcus laughed, sarcastic, “Thanks, Sherly. That warms my heart to hear you say so.” He snickered with Will--both of them happy to have their stubborn, rude friend returned to them--and then the three of them stood back and watched Cillian glide through the crowd with Harriet at his elbow.

Cillian smiled and made conversation as he had been taught to do and even laughed and made a joke here or there, not showing an ounce of his usual shyness--until Guern reached him. Cillian’s pink cheeks were hard to miss and he dipped his head more, employed the use of his fan as Harriet had taught him.

Sherlock was at first oblivious to Guern’s effect on Cillian, dragged John over to watch with him as the feminized youth began dancing with gentlemen. Sherlock paced, “we must take him to London, John. We _MUST_!”

“It won’t come to that,” Marcus said sagely. They watched as the doctor ended up dancing three dances in a row with the belle of the ball. Cillian was obliged to give attention to one or two others, but went right back to the doctor as soon as he could.

At about the fifth dance, Cillian was swinging wide at the ends of Guern’s hands, skirts swishing, his laughter bubbling up loudly through the crowd and Guern was laughing, too, and it was clear the two had an attachment already.

Will grinned at Marcus. “You had this in mind when you suggested the dress, didn’t you?”

“Maybe,” Marcus shrugged innocently, “I think we all know Cillian had formed an attachment to Guern and Guern might have mentioned to me once that his fortunate father wears dresses. It’s all there in Freud.”

Sherlock threw his head back and laughed loudly at this and clapped Marcus on the back. Even he could not deny how lit up his young cousin was by the big doctor, so whatever disapproval he might have had about his limited income he tactfully kept to himself.

Esca went to his toes, grinning, to say quietly, “You’ve worked a miracle.”

“Have I?” Marcus asked.

Esca looked surprised, “You have noticed that _Guern_ is dancing the quadrille, haven’t you?”

“So he is,” Marcus laughed humbly.

“Cillian is beautiful,” Esca praised, looking out at him, “Well done, there, too.”

“I thank you, though it was all Mother’s doing,” Marcus nodded to the woman across the room and she nodded back happily.

“But it was your idea…. Why is Will wearing your cravat?”

“Oh,” Marcus colored and touched the fabric under his chin, “I looked to be in mourning—we have traded for the evening. And, look, Sherly and I have the same birthstone.” He showed off the cameo.

“Hmm,” Esca said at the borrowed clothing. Marcus’s heart skipped when he detected the look on Esca’s face to be a possessive one as he looked at the little favors—perhaps a little too much like _gifts_ from his manish friends; gifts he wore without shame.

Then the music changed to something slow and Esca held out his hand, that glint of determination to sell their ruse still present in those metallic eyes. “This one isn’t out of your abilities, is it?”

“No,” Marcus admitted—too shocked at being asked to dance to think to lie and get out of it. Esca took his hand and drew him onto the dance floor.

As they began the elegant steps—of which Marcus was at first halting and then merely adequate, for he had learned all dances as a man--they fell into conversation laced with well-practiced doting for the benefit of nearby ears.

Esca complimented his figure, his triumph with Cillian’s new look, his outrageous success as a host, and even his height. The fortunate enjoyed being the center of praise immensely. (He’d been so for years as a soldier frequently bettering his peers in skill.) He also could not help but savor the hand on his waist, the soft smile on Esca’s face, those ears under the fringe of bronze hair (that perhaps needed a cut,) and the overall feeling of being adored which all of these things plus Esca’s relentless gaze brought on.

 _My dearest, at last…_ Marcus recalled the night his child had first kicked and they had nearly lost themselves in pleasure. The memory of that ardent passion which had burst like a dam out of Esca’s mean-countenance quickened Marcus’ heart even as he struggled to remember the dance steps. Esca’s eyes, even now, blazed into him.

 _I have prayed for your heart to turn to me_ , the man had panted, body pressed to Marcus’, _and at last—oh, darling_!

So distracted was Marcus at the sudden rise in temperature that so many dancing bodies in the room had produced that he completely missed the turn in the dance, sticking his enormous self out of the neat row of dancers like a sore thumb and then, panicked, whirling about--in the wrong direction--and nearly laying Esca flat by slamming his shoulder into him.

Eyes bright, a smirk playing on his lips, Esca steadied him with two firm hands on his shoulders, “Alright, dearest?” he asked.

Humiliated, Marcus backed off the dance floor, babbling excuses about sore ankles. It was positively _boiling_ in this room. Trying to refrain from loosening his cravat, he made for the windows--the cooler side of the room--and the cushioned chairs there.

With his feet up, the situation in his trousers was easier contained, though not helped by Esca’s hovering, the musky scent of him, and his touch as he held Marcus’ hand or touched his face in his fretting. When Esca finally slipped away through the crowds to fetch some water, Marcus took steadying breathes and focused on assuring those around him that all was well, making charming jokes about the mancub, and _not_ thinking about how badly he needed to be pressed into a bed and made to feel like he was bleeding all the pleasure of his life from his aching, now even itching, groin.

Sherlock swept in with his usual bat-like grace and settled on the cushion next to him, hawk-like eyes boring into him, “Damn changes,” the man murmured knowingly. “When I was in your place John need only look in my direction and I would go simply _wild_ for him.”

“Sherlock!” Marcus groaned horrified that his arousal was so evident and dreading the thought that such a thing had been overheard.

“I commend you for making it so near to the end of the dance before losing your control,” Sherlock continued, either oblivious to his impropriety or uncaring, “What with your husband making so free with his ravenous looks, it can’t have been an easy task.”

“Oh, good lord,” Marcus put his burning face in his hands, “Was he so indiscreet?”

“Perhaps not to the common idiot. You understand by now that I have a shrewd eye for observation.” Marcus continued to hold his face in his hands until Esca returned with the water.

“Are you quite sure nothing is amiss?” he asked as Marcus sipped. “I could pry Geurn from Cillian’s clutches.”

“Please do,” Sherlock murmured.

“No!” Marcus said at once, but mostly for the sake of going against Sherlock. “Let the doctor enjoy himself.”

Sherlock’s hackles practically rose. His fingers curled into knuckles. “Cillian should dance with more than one partner. It would be rude to ignore the other bachelors in favor of a man like _that_! _I_ , for one, did not--”

“For god’s sake, Sherlock!” Marcus cut in, loudly over the other fortunate man’s well-rehearsed speech about the trouble he has gone through to pull Cillian out of a pigsty and into Accomplished Society. “Just let him follow his heart!”

Lestrade arrived at Esca's side, smiled politely at Marcus, but promptly murmuring something seemingly about their work. Grinning, Esca gave Marcus’ shoulder a squeeze, bent to drop a kiss to his hair and wished Marcus good luck in the ensuing match fight for alpha in the group. Unspoken was the matter of whatever business deal he and Lestrade had managed to work into their socializing this evening. Absolutely no effort was made to include Marcus in it; indeed it seemed efforts were being made to deliberately keep him from the loop. Pretending instead that Lestrade had no business agenda this evening, Marcus allowed Esca to slip away through the crowd.

|||

Miss Kitty Murphy was the talk of the county. Marcus found it a vast relief to be dropped from the rumor mill. No one wanted to talk about the burly, soldier fruitful man, extremely-seven months pregnant and letting the world and God see it, when they could talk about the new ingénue, the success story that was the fortunate son of a destitute farm-hand. Such stories gave the common people hope as they dreamt that circumstances could change for the better with something as simple as a wardrobe change.

The only downside was that Cillian had to relearn his entire life to live as a woman. The overly-masculine habits Marcus had nurtured into his fairer friends were considered absolutely horrid, ghastly problems, and Cillian complained, in the privacy of the parlor room at Brigantes, that the problem with skirts was that it made the easy things harder.

“Ridin’ for instance! I can’t ride anymore!” he lilted, never so talkative before he wore such billowing skirts. “Not at all! I was practically born on horseback me da says, and now tey want me to ride sidesaddle! _Sidesaddle_! Me own ma don’t ride sidesaddle!”

“Cillian, you’re slipping,” Sherlock said tersely in regards to the heavy Irish accent in Cillian’s words. “And you’re a lady now. You must ride sidesaddle or not at all.”

The lovely young man rolled his clear blue eyes. Behind him, someone walking briskly past slid to a stop and stuck his head in the door. It was Esca, in his riding boots, and windswept, as usual. His eyes swept the room and landed on Marcus. “Did I hear you speaking of saddles?”

Marcus laughed, and rolled his eyes, “Yes, dear. We are speaking of horses, believe it or not!”

Esca’s eyes had fire in them, and he entered the room with a playful smile turning his face upwards. He stood behind Marcus and squeezed his shoulders. “I hardly can believe it. I have told you, dear, when this happens you must call for me immediately! You know what it does to me to hear you speak of my passions.”

Will hid his smile behind a teacup, and Sherlock steepled his fingers under his nose, studying Esca unashamedly. Cillian opened his fan. Marcus felt his face heating up, but played his role with the ease practice had given him. He dropped a kiss to Esca’s knuckles. “We are talking of sidesaddle riding. For S’iss Kitty.”

“Ah,” Esca turned his eyes to the lovely fortunate, who closed his fan, and was comfortable enough to sigh and show his real feelings on the matter. “Ya can’t gallop in the sidesaddle without breakin’ yer neck, and if ya can’t gallop, ten tere’s no point in it. I’ll just give up t’ horse like I gave up t’ pants.”

Esca drew in breath so suddenly it might have been a gasp. “Give up the horse? Dear—did you hear him say that to me?” he asked Marcus playfully.

“Oh god,” Marcus buried his face, which was honestly on fire because he was not sure about this, about Esca fitting so perfectly into this part of his life. While the easy jokes were fun, he wanted them to stop. He wanted Esca to just come and go, a gentle, strong creature like John Watson, leaving him to enjoy his sater friends alone.

At least that way the safe haven of his friends’ company would not be tainted with the doom that was sure to befall him someday should hard reality drive them apart upon Marcus once again blundering so stupendously in human relationships as he had already done before. He wished his body was not so traitorous at the moment as it thrilled at Esca’s nearness, lifting in chill bumps of anticipation at his touch.

“Did you not hear me say I’ll break my neck?” Cillian asked so forwardly that Will almost choked on his tea and Sherlock sat up, hissed, “Kitty, you are speaking to the Lord Cunoval—“

Esca was laughing however, and shaking his head. He waved a hand at Sherlock to cut out such nonsense, and he spoke to Cillian. “As a matter of fact, it is possible to gallop and ride sidesaddle at the same time. I can teach you how. It is very easy.”

“You know how to ride sidesaddle?” Sherlock asked skeptically.

“You doubt I was made to learn the finer things in my youth?” Esca gritted, but amiably, making the room smile. Then he turned back to Cillian, “So what do you think, S’iss Murphy? Lessons, let’s say three days a week?”

Propriety returned to Cillian, and he spoke elegantly, “I have no pressing engagements that demand I should know the riding style so quickly, and I do not wish to monopolize your time.”

“But you do have a pressing engagement,” Esca said. “You all do! I am at this moment arranging a hunt. Partly business related, but the new dogs need exercise, and I need a chase. You and your husbands are invited of course, but, S’iss, as Guern will also be riding, I do not imagine you will want to sit it out with Marcus.”

“A hunt! Marvelous!” Will said. “I love hunts!”

“Yes, John was actually saying something to me just the other day about hunting. He will be most pleased by the invite, thank you, Lord Cunoval.”

Esca made his exit with excuses about more business to attend to, and Marcus sat with his jaw clenched because he felt foolish now, sitting here entertaining guests, when there was apparently so much to do that it had become necessary to mix work and pleasure with the hunt—a business arrangement Marcus could not help but feel was set up to ensure he could not force himself into it, as he could go nowhere near a running horse right now.

“Well, well!” Sherlock said happily when they had the room to themselves again. “What a pleasant fellow, Marcus. You haven’t told us Lord Cunoval has a sense of humor.”

“I’m sure I have,” he lied smoothly. “And it’s to do with horses, as everything else about him does.”

“He’s charming,” Cillian said.

Marcus noticed that Will was looking intently—knowingly—at him, and Marcus wanted to hit him. Sherlock and Cillian began to argue about something, playing hard to get verses being himself, or ‘being an improper leprechaun, you mean’—and Marcus could not concentrate. On their way out the door, Will hung back and said,

“Is there anything the matter, Marcus?”

“No, what do you mean?”

“I have noticed....you seemed troubled by Lord Esca’s interruption today.”

“It is only that I am saddened I won’t be able to join you lot in the hunt.”

Will did not look at all convinced. He nodded, though, and clapped Marcus on the shoulder. “If there is anything I can do, don’t hesitate to ask. I feel I’m indebted to you for fixing my marriage. I only wish to return the favor.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said through his teeth.

“Surely not all of the estate affairs are to do with horses. Maybe he can leave that bit to you at least.”

“Thank you, William. I must go lie down now, my back is killing me.”

“Of course. Good evening, Frtnt. Lord.”

His friends saw themselves out of the house, and Marcus climbed the stairs with repressed groans of discomfort. He had favored his good leg too much today and it had done a number on his back. He found Esca changed from muddy riding clothes into clean ones and rushing briskly toward the stairs. He slowed as they drew nearer to one another.

“Your group of friends are lively; I understand now how you can spend so much time with them.” Esca said.

“They certainly keep boredom at bay.” Marcus said fondly. “And they are quite taken with you. Good show down there.”

“I feel such displays have become necessary. Cottia has informed me that my recent coldness on certain matters has alarmed the staff, and as you say, we cannot give them reason to doubt…”

“And your solution is to intensify our love making to draw attention from the existing problems. Hence your invitation to dance last night.”

“Well—yes, to put too fine a point on it.”

“While I am not fully pleased by the solution, I cannot lie and say the plan will not work, for it has.” Marcus said. “Sherlock is a shrewd audience and detects nothing but ardent love between us.”

“What a triumph! If we have Sherlock Watson on our side then the battle is half won.”

“Indeed.”

“…Why _did_ you kiss me outside of my father’s room?” Esca asked suddenly.

All of the breath left Marcus, and he thought quickly. “You were sad. I thought to cheer you up.” He heard Liathan say those words and his stomach turned.

Esca stared hard at him. “Is that the only reason?”

“Yes,” Marcus said meekly under that relentless gaze. He hardened his resolve. “We are friends permitted to call one another husband—I did not think one kiss would cause such trouble between us. You have kissed me more deeply than that to convince an audience and did not hold it against me.”

“We were alone.”

“And you said once that our kissing may continue.”

“Surely you understand that I meant kisses of honest affection.” Esca said. He moved closer, so that Marcus could feel his body heat. “If you tell me that was at least part of your motivation, then we may kiss right now… and whenever it possesses us from this day forth.”

Marcus’ mouth opened the words _yes, I think I do…I might possibly…_ halted on his tongue by uncertainty, for as thrilling as it would be to taste Esca’s fire from time to time, it would be wrong to take advantage of it merely for his own selfish needs.

Damn this timing! What he wouldn’t give to have the chance to befriend Esca with his wits about himself, so he might know and trust the feelings careening through his body.

Marcus swallowed hard, remembering with a clatter of his heart the worshipful words Esca had gasped as they rutted together in the starlight and what devastation he had caused for merely doing as wished of him.

“Esca,” he said thickly, resolved to straighten out this complication in his life. “The last thing I want to do is miss lead you as I have been misled.” _I care greatly for you now, but I am not myself at the moment and it is not to be trusted._ “Your friendship is the only thing that makes this place my home. I will not risk it for anything.”

Those stormy eyes bore into Marcus, detecting those words left unsaid but, Marcus hoped, unable to decipher them. He was still entitled to his secrets, was he not?

With a lease of breath and a shake of his head, Esca at last broke eye contact. “You, of course, know better than I the ways of your heart. I have only been hoping…but no matter. I will also risk our friendship for nothing.”

|||

“What shall you do today?” Marcus asked over breakfast. When Esca was finished listing the day’s appointments, Marcus opened his mouth, but was cut off,

“Please, I know what you are going to ask.”

“Do you?”

“The baby is too near, Marcus. You must rest.”

“Give me letters to write or something, please! I don’t understand why you won’t share the lordship duties. I, too, am a lord, you know!”

“Where is this coming from? You have shown no interest in the estate affairs until here recently.”

“It was not until here recently that I have felt trapped in a prison of my own making.”

“Prison,” Esca repeated darkly. “Yesterday you called this place home and said you would not risk it for something like this.”

Marcus huffed. “Is asking my friend for a job a crime worthy of putting me out of this house?”

Esca was livid and did not answer. He left the table, room, the house, and was not seen for the rest of the day.

Marcus spent the hottest part of the afternoon sitting with the Old Man, copying another story about the old regiment days, and when he had had as much of that as he could endure, Marcus read about the animal kingdom, wrote letters home to mother and uncle, and then waddled down to the stables, seeking company with Sir Charles.

Thunder sounded from over the hill. Marcus turned and surveyed the clear sky. A moment later, he realized it was galloping hooves. Two riders crested the hill. It was Esca on Eagle, and Cillian on Appleseed.

“He’s mastered it, Charles, look at him!” Marcus said happily for his lovely friend. Cillian had indeed; racing Esca down the hill with both legs on one side of the horse. It was a close call, but Esca made it into the stables first. Both had ridden straight past Marcus without seeing him propped on the fence, and they were laughing, full of adrenaline. Marcus missed the feeling; it was as if he would never again be permitted to feel that in this new life of his.

Once he had waddled back inside the stables, the two riders had both dismounted and were still laughing.

“Esca! Cillian!” Marcus said rather loudly, forcing a bright cheerful smile onto his face as he entered the barn. “You two nearly ran me down out there, did you not see me at the fence?”

“Good lord, did we?” Esca asked, alarmed.

“No, I was well out of harms away. In fact, completely invisible, I was led to believe, for neither of you waved hello.”

“Sorry, Marcus,” Cillian panted, thin chest heaving above his corset. “I was concentrating.”

“You were doing well,” Esca praised kindly. “Galloped all the way from the brook. You will be sore tomorrow!”

“Where have you left Sherly?” Marcus asked. These were not supposed to be private lessons.

Cillian and Esca traded a look and burst into contained laughter, as if they knew better than to be amused by the secret answer they had. Something ugly and sharp woke up in Marcus’ stomach and he was far from amused by this scene.

“What are you two so giggly about?” he blurted the question that ran circles in his head. He wanted to know what two grown men could laugh about so constantly. He wanted to know why Sherlock would allow Cillian to damage his reputation and delicate standing with the doctor by allowing him to go riding alone with an experienced man, and he wanted to know why Esca was suddenly interested in his friends now that one of them was the fairest in the land.

Cillian’s face was brighter and more open than Marcus had ever seen it, but the lad detected Marcus’ unhappiness, and sobered greatly, prompting Esca to _finally_ look away from his pretty pupil and over to Marcus who was standing, livid, with Charles’ apple clenched in a white fist.

“He was just tellin’ me t’ tale of how he learned sidesaddle.” Cillian said offhandedly as if Marcus knew all the details. Marcus _should_ have known all the details, and he did not, and that was what angered him.

He returned to the house, alone, and tried to console himself by looking at the bright side. The fact that Esca could be diverted by someone else meant that Marcus was, for the first time in his life, not the center of attention, not the most popular, the most sought for in company. This, he immediately attributed to his newfound self-respect in that he did not change himself simply to be liked.

 _It is good not to be liked by everyone_ , he told himself firmly. _It means you are not that vile pathetic soul which once would do literally anything to remain in every one’s favor._

Thinking these thoughts and seeing in his mind’s eye Esca (windswept, red-eared, and laughing with a giggling Cillian) Marcus dejectedly announced he would spend the rest of the evening in bed, for his condition was taking its toll on his energy today. He shut himself up in his room, not bothering to light a candle, his sudden melancholy mood craving the dark.

“It is a good sign,” he murmured to his baby bump, feeling he himself needed the reassurance more than the unborn child. “It is not necessary to be liked by everyone.”

He crushed all thoughts regarding the necessity of being liked by one’s own husband, and certainly did not acknowledge the pang of regret that his own natural personality should be so disagreeable to anyone, Esca in particular.

|           |           |

“Marcus?” Esca’s voice preceded a rap on the door and Esca’s entrance. The nobleman was in the room for a breath or two before peeking around the door—prompting Marcus to suspect he, Esca, was allowing for the possibility the mother-man-to-be had slipped away to release some pressures, which brought to mind an interesting question as to his visit now.

 _Come to join me_? Marcus thought wryly (and he mistook the thrill of that thought to be a lightening of his spirits for having amused himself.)

“Are you well?’ Esca asked, finally showing himself around the door and coming all the way in when Marcus proved to be dressed, above the covers and not doing anything suspicious at all. “I was told you’ve retired for the day saying you were tired. Should I track down that good-for-nothing, love-struck doctor whose job it is to know these things before I?”

Esca’s tone was more playful than a serious slight against Geurn’s character.

“Do not trouble him. It is nothing which an hour or two with my feet up will not cure.”

“Alright,” Esca said quieter now as if speaking over a sleeping child’s pram, “I will go and leave you to your rest.”

The sudden thought that Esca was going to have dinner at _their_ table with Kitty and challenge the doctor for the youth’s attentions prompt Marcus to go to an elbow, “Wait!”

“Yes?”

“There is something we should discuss—about what happened at the stables earlier.”

“Did something worth a discussion even happen?” Esca asked dubiously, a smirk faintly discernible to Marcus through the gloom of the room. “I had no notion of it.”

“Only that I was embarrassed that you should have told Kitty more about yourself than even I know!” Marcus confessed in a rush, “What is this tale of hilarity regarding how you learned side-saddle? Kitty now knows it and he _assumes_ that I know it, too, when I do not. What if he knows detail about you now that I do not? What if I make a fool of myself in front of him, saying something about you that is inherently not true?”

The dull outline of Esca’s body in the darkness shifted, changed to something more erect and backed off a step, “Do you regularly make things up about me, Marcus?”

“I am left no choice—and as you are a recluse, it never seemed to matter!”

“What kinds of things do you say?” Esca’s voice was clipped through the darkness. Marcus very much wanted to open the curtains or light a candle.

“Do not worry yourself, hardly anything. No one asked for much detail—only now they will after that display of charm and amiability.”

“You’re angry because I endeavored to know your friends?”

“I should know you better than any of them,” Marcus had struggled into an upright position (more and more a struggle these days) and pulled open the curtains. Turning to Esca, the man was squinting in the light, looking ill amused. “Might you take a moment now to tell me the story of how you learned sidesaddle?”

Esca was quiet. He was not looking at Marcus and shook his head a little with a lost smile. Finally, he looked at him, that square-on, unreadable, grey _look_ , “You ask me for my history only now?”

“It is important that I—“

“I would have you endeavor to know me because you want to _know_ _me_ ,” Esca cut in, rather coolly and turning to the door, “not because you want to impress your friends by having more information than they do to hold over their heads.” And with that, he was gone.

Marcus wouldn’t leave it there. He was straight out after his husband, grabbing the man by the elbow, turning him about and crowding him against the wall,

“How dare you? It has been your intention since the beginning to carry on as if we are hopelessly, helplessly, in love and now I attempt to secure that illusion by attempting to know you more personally than all else, and you refuse on the grounds that I only wish to impress my friends? Might I remind you that it has been at _your_ insistence that I march around this village in my condition for no other reason than to improve your manly image among other men!”

Called out, Esca glared back at Marcus, but he did not speak. A curious shift occurred between them so that suddenly, they were not arguing about what had happened outside with Kitty…in fact it hardly felt as if they were arguing at all. Esca’s weight thumped fully against the wall. There, leaning inches from Esca’s fiery gaze, Marcus lived a heart pounding moment, drawn in by that hungry look—

And then with a twist and slight dunk, Esca escaped the cage of Marcus’ body and strode off down the hallway with some urgent purpose, a loud cough, and not even a glance back.


	16. The Infiltration of Real Society with a Former Recluse

Marcus’ routine outings to see his unusual friends, which Esca had so arranged to feed his ego, abruptly ended just before the frost arrived. While the rest to his system was helpful, it did nothing to settle his restless spirit, and after over a week of isolation, his temperament led to the most damaging scene of his new life. Not only would he make a fool of himself, but he would wind up hurting his dearest little friend.

It began with Will’s decision to visit some obscure family on the coast in hopes that he could spend time with Norrington on shore leave, and on the same week, Sherlock had joined his husband on a trip to see his sister’s new baby. Cillian alone remained, having elected out of the trip in order to stay on here at Brigantes with Marcus (and more importantly, Guern.)

Having the delicate lovely boy as a houseguest was exceedingly delightful, most of the time. Marcus found behaving as the chaperone quite a tedious chore and often skipped it, trusting that nothing too unsanctioned could happen during garden walks, which the pair took as frequently as possible despite the cold weather. Marcus supposed Cillian could not truly feel the chill temperature under those wigs and skirts, anyway, and it had to be thrilling to be always held so closely by the considerate doctor, who blocked the wind by tucking Cillian under one arm.

Therefore, Marcus spent his days in solitude and vivid daydreams, writing similar scenarios for himself, featuring a determinedly faceless man (though always interestingly short in stature.) The morning of the terrible scene, Marcus decided to call for a tray rather than go down. It was not that he loathed eating breakfast in the dining room, but it was less painful to bear the old man’s senile rants and ramblings when Esca was there to guide his father through the hazy past back to the present. Alas, the nobleman was absent today, and so the tray was sent for.

Esca’s continued absence from the house in favor of pressing business left Marcus suffering these lonely meals day after day. Nurse Sasstica, while kind and diligent in her duties, seemed to have a deaf ear to all of it and spoke no more than the customary etiquette to Marcus. Guern, it seemed, was at last settling further into Brigantes’ comfort, and had taken to sleeping in more often than not, becoming perpetually absent. The truly agonizing part was that Capt. Aquila and Harriet had returned to London so he had not even family to divert him, and that Esca’s absence would extend further than his business schedule today, for he had arranged another riding lesson that would take even Cillian from Marcus’ company.

And so Marcus had no one to save him from his acute boredom this morning. Reading was either riveting or frightfully dull, and at the moment just the thought of sitting still in one place for so long made Marcus’ back ache. Once finished filling his stomach, he wandered the house and grounds, until he came within speaking distance of Esca at last. As usual, he could not stop himself from cornering the nobleman for conversation.

Their talks were always harried these days, as Esca was never anything but rushed from one corner of the estate to the other.

“Will you not have lunch here at the house?” Marcus asked as they matched stride through the hallways.

“No,” Esca said fitting his gloves, “I have promised to fit in another riding lesson for Kitty before my appointment across the village this evening, if you recall.”

“My I come?” Marcus asked passed the taste in his mouth, bitter at the thought of Cillian batting those perfect lashes at Esca and insisting to be known as _Kitty_.

“Marcus, you know the dangers of riding in your condition—“

“No, no. I meant the appointment. I can take the carriage and meet you there?”

“That will not be a good idea, I think.”

Marcus set his teeth and his nostrils flared, but he asked civilly, “Why not?”

“It is obvious why not,” Esca said shortly, barely repressing a snort of derision which sent Marcus’s hands into fists.

“Because I am a mother man?”

“Yes and because this is not a knitting circle where the state of your body can be forgiven; these are men of business who are not acclimated to your streak of impropriety!”

Knocked breathless with no physical blow dealt, Marcus bit off, “You are ashamed to have your equals see what you have done to me when you would have it be so for the rest of the world?”

“You have forgotten I have not done it,” Esca replied tersely, lowly, stepping forward and thrusting his face into Marcus’, chin hard and eyes fiery. “You will never care for me enough for that—you are determined.”

Marcus fell silent and looked away—unable to defend himself. Esca stepped back, looking bitter. “All you want from me is rank in Society, to be the Fortunate Lord of Brigantes and the _only_ known face from this house! This would explain why you are so against my inclusion into your circle of Society. And now, apparently, you will have the power that goes with the title; I suppose you think it is owed to you, as it is your money that saved the estate.”

“That is not true and you know it,” Marcus cried with the urge to correct this monstrous delusion, an urge which he doused because he did not know how to do that without declaring love to him.

“Then what is behind this sudden _need_ of yours to have more control than me in my own life?” Esca asked, baffled and letting it show beyond his anger.

“More control? It is not about control—I am Lord of Brigantes, too, why shouldn’t I be given a more suitable occupation to pass my time? Surely you did not expect me to sit here idle whilst you run about. I have led a busy life until now, and idleness presses on my chest like an anvil. I _need_ an occupation!”

“There are plenty of occupations for the fortunate lord to do as the head of Society.” Esca said again. Marcus felt like throwing something, but restrained himself.

“You and I both know my standing in Society is shaky at best.”

Esca looked wholly unsympathetic. “That can easily be fixed if you practiced decorum and divvied your time among parties other than your current group alone!”

“I would rather wrestle in a pit of snakes than subject myself to that level of torture on a regular basis, most especially when I have the ability to help you in much more interesting matters of the estate!”

“Marcus, you simply cannot.”

“No, of course I cannot. You’ll have me here at home, knitting socks like a useless, uninteresting woman--perhaps I ought to wear a dress like one, too, WOULD THAT PLEASE YOU?”

The nobleman blanched, and a look of panic flashed across his face. At the same moment, Marcus heard the unmistakable gasp of his fairest young friend behind him.

Turning, Marcus beheld Cillian—and Guern as well--framed by the parlor entrance. Cillian was wide-eyed and gaping at the arguing couple. Guern’s jaw was set, his lips a tight line of offence at the scathing tone in which Marcus had referenced Cillian’s breed.

“Forgive me,” Marcus said quickly, “I did not mean—only that—“

Esca brushed past Marcus, speaking lowly, “We will discuss this further when I return. Kitty, may we start off? I am working against the clock today.”

Cillian curtsied quickly, and Guern bowed his head. No one acknowledged Marcus as they departed. Shamed by his outburst, Marcus kicked furniture out of his way and retreated to his room.

|||

It was the following day, and tea sat cooling on Will’s table when Marcus made it into the sitting room, slightly winded from his eager, wobbly dash into the townhouse. To his disappointment, he found only Will and Sherlock present. It was their first day back in Brigantes, having arrived last night and early that morning, respectively.

“Is Kitty not joining us?”

Sherlock and Will traded a significant look, and Marcus’ stomach dropped. “I am so embarrassed. Have you seen him? Has he told you what happened yesterday?”

“We have heard a version or two,” Will said delicately, not looking directly at him. Marcus sat and covered his face. “What a mess. I have written to him, and begged his forgiveness. It was a mindless moment of anger; I meant not a word of it. Sherly, you must understand my condition? I was being ridiculous.”

“Yes, quite,” Sherlock allowed, “And I have told Kitty this. We are never to be held accountable for the remarks we make in the heat of the far flung emotions of our Changing.”

“Thank you. Where is he today? Perhaps I should find him, apologize to his face.”

“You are being most thoughtful, Frnt. Lord.” Will said. “But Kitty is riding with your husband this morning, their final lesson.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” Marcus said, blinking, distracted by misery.

There was a heavy pause in the room, and Marcus sensed another look pass between his two friends before Sherlock did what Sherlock did best.

“Your indelicacy about Kitty’s transformation is not what eats at our brains, Marcus. Rather the notion that Lord Esca is not as entirely pleased with you as we all took him to be.”

“Sherly,” Will hedged, “If Marcus does not wish to discuss—“

“I am only making an observation, Will. If Marcus wishes me to keep my nose out of it then by all means, all he need say is—“

“Sherly, keep your nose out of it,” Marcus said, silencing the fortunate for only a minute or so before Sherlock sat his teacup down.

“The dresses, your idea for them. Was it originally a suggestion from Lord Esca which you now lament you ever followed?”

Heat flaring up his neck, Marcus demanded, “What has given you that notion?”

“Only that Kitty reported what he heard before his presence was detected. He said you seemed quite certain that Lord Esca wanted a wife instead of, well, _you_.”

Another heavy silence fell, Marcus’ shoulders slumped beneath the weight and he sighed. “I was convinced of it at the moment, yes. But as I have said it was a mindless notion, based on a jealousy I am not proud of.”

“You are jealous of Lord Esca’s attention to Kitty?” Will asked.

“No! No,” Marcus quickly fabricated a suitable answer and in saying it found it not in the least fabricated at all, “I was jealous of the time Lord Esca spent away from me handling the estate business. In the beginning, we barely spent a moment apart. Now things have begun to change…”

Sherlock and Will nodded, confirming Marcus’ assumption that such a thing happened in every marriage.

“I admit his lessons with Kitty did not sit well with me, for if he could make time for our friends, then he should be able to make time for me as well. I missed him greatly and saw no reason why I could not accompany him from time to time.” He sipped his tea and spoke a little more truthfully, “After making my feelings known to him, Esca has relented. We have agreed to hire a steward.”

_After the fight Marcus took his lunch in bed and Esca strode into the room without knocking, speaking immediately, “You greatly wounded your friend, Marcus.”_

_Shamed, Marcus bit his tongue._

_“You insulted me,” Esca paced, “You implied that I prefer women when I have told you right from the beginning that I never have, not in that way.”_

_“But Kitty is not a woman,” Marcus snapped, “He has all the perks of a man as well as the beauty of a girl.”_

_“I do not want delicacy and flowers, Marcus!”_

_“It seems as if you do—Kitty is not the first. What of Cottia, and even Nurse Sasstica and Lady Geneva?”_

_“Friends only! Surely you know me well enough to know that I would never take a man as my own if I did not want him.”_

_“You said so yourself many men are tricked into fortunate marriages only to learn they do not care for it.”_

_“I am no such man, Marcus. I want masculinity, I want the scratch of beard upon my face, I want muscle pressing against my own. I desire a man of_ strength _who can overpower me but who will instead surrender to me fully; where else shall I find it but in one such as you? I promise, Marcus, this part of me will not change.”_

_Marcus dipped his head lower, praying that Esca would go—would stop saying such things that sent his blood racing. But Esca stayed and continued, “I have always been most at ease with women. I will fault my size for that. While always thought to be the fairer sex while among men, I am never doubted among women. That is the only attraction they hold for me.”_

_“I apologize for doubting you. My moods are swift and my blood quick to boil. Please, let us think nothing more of it.”_

_“No,” Esca was far from convinced and sat on the edge of the bed, “tis not a mood swing that moves you into wanting to run the estate.”_

_“I told you, idleness is my enemy—and if you will tell me again to host more balls and tea parties I will hit you in the nose and do not doubt it!”_

_Esca grinned, inclined his head, eyes dancing, “It was cruel of me to suggest you reenter Miss Swan’s circles—I spoke only from a desire that_ all _in Society see your condition and believe me the cause, but that is not necessary, for the word is out and subjecting yourself to their viciousness would not improve the matter.”_

_Marcus chuckled softly and nodded. Esca spoke lowly, delicately, “I understand from Kitty that Will has gone to -----shire, and everyone else to London. You did not tell me. Why?”_

_Because Esca would have insisted on giving Marcus company and the more he was near Marcus, the less certain Marcus became about himself. “I thought it did not concern you.”_

_“It should not concern me that my husband is lonely?” Sighing, Esca stood once more and drifted to the window. “It is settled. I will hire Mr. Lestrade to be my steward, and shall be a gentleman of leisure at long last, free to enjoy Society. Perhaps together we can strengthen your standing without sacrificing your dearest friendships.”_

Sherlock and Will became happy at the prospect of seeing more of Esca—the taste of him they had gotten the day he had proposed riding lessons for Cillian had intrigued them to know more of him.

|||

At Esca’s insistence, Marcus was routinely exhausted by an addition of gatherings here at the house—small diner parties and larger dances—which included the parts of local Society which Marcus had seen very little of, thanks to his involvement with Sherlock Watson and William Norrington, those unseemly fortunate men.

At several of these social affairs, many marked by the elected absence of his friends who did not care to subject themselves to cold shoulders if they did not have to, Marcus had to face old acquaintances from his regiment who had marched into town of late as some merciless test from God, no doubt. Most of these soldiers frowned at him—the roundness of his figure in more than one place—and walked away without so much as a word, leaving Esca to glare at their backs and then glance up at Marcus and away, pensive.

Those among the military men who _did_ speak to Marcus were divided into two schools of thought. Some, much like the Old Man, chose to find humor in what (as far as they were aware) had turned out to be a harmless deception— _and what of it_ , they asked merrily _, if a man can carry to full term without getting off his feet even once, then let him_! They congratulated him and made jokes, reminisced on the past, and constantly forgot to put the _fortunate_ in front of _Captain._

The other half of the soldiers made snide comments, leering at his figure, and emphasized the _fortunate_ to add weight to their implications that he was weaker and they had always known it. Esca, if at Marcus’ side for any of this, boldly stepped in front of whichever vulgar soldier even as the man spoke and suggested to Marcus in a loud, clear voice that they find better conversation elsewhere and that _you, sir, will find your leave from my house._

Marcus admired that for one so small, Esca never retreated a single inch in any given situation. And as for being brought so low in the favor of men Marcus would have once looked up to, such a loss he was willing to live with if he never had to see those disgusted faces ever again.

Though Marcus was adept at pretending such things did not perturb him during the day, those prejudices returned to him sometimes at night, and blended with Liathan’s heartfelt, wounded speeches, and it was those nights that Marcus cried himself to sleep. Sometimes he found escape from such dreadful thoughts by allowing himself to dwell on Esca’s confession; _I want a man of strength who can overpower me but who will instead surrender to me fully_.

When his flesh was aching and his heart too tired of pretending not to want whatever tenderness Esca Cunoval had to offer, Marcus dreamed what it would be like to surrender to Esca, to feel adored and desired, beautiful and worthy...

Between such treacherous social events and indulgent fantasies, Marcus staved off boredom with his friends, watching Will copy miniature masterpieces onto ceramics or table tops, listening to Sherlock’s violin, or helping Cillian with his French as they stitched colorful thread into cravats, handkerchiefs and shirt cuffs—though the young beauty had progressed in the language so that the lessons were frequently reversed, and Marcus learned more than his little friend. Sometimes Marcus sat with the Old Man and attempted to draw Nurse Sasstica into conversation without flirting with her.

When restless (which seemed to be always in this stage of the pregnancy) and when Esca and Guern were engaged elsewhere—and Marcus felt he should not impose on his aging father-in-law’s rest—he walked down to the stables to visit Charles.

The black stallion was often running in the fields, but in almost no time, the beast learned to answer to a call for a juicy apple. Sometimes, he was in his stall enjoying second helpings of everything and not even pregnant. This made Marcus feel better about his own eating habits. If no one else was around, Marcus would speak to Charles in confidence about such things.

 _Who is your best friend Marcus?_ Esca had once asked him. The memory floated to Marcus on the wintry air, for they had been working near this spot as they had had that first revealing conversation… Their first kiss...Marcus shook himself out of it.

“Charlie, you know, I think I misjudged Esca,” he said to break the taunting silence.

The stallion continued to munch loudly, but grumbled, ears pricking to Marcus. The mother man had pulled up a sturdy barrel and rested with his feet up, a book of science open on his growing chest.

“It is not so strange to have a horse as a best friend. In fact, it is very sensible. I know you will never betray me. You are _safe_ in that regard...” his voice trailed off as he wondered what Esca feared so greatly that he practically isolated himself from the world with such pure creatures. The corner of his mouth lifted as he considered self-preservation to be the greatest trait they had in common.

“I am glad to see you have taken to each other,” came Esca’s voice from outside the stables. Marcus gave a start and nearly upset the barrel. Eagle pranced regally into the stable, Esca on her back. On his face was one of the happiest smiles Marcus had yet seen on him.

“Forgive me, I did not mean to startle you.”

Marcus nodded and scooted the barrel around beneath him as if to find a more level part of the ground. Esca dismounted. “What were you two talking about?”

“I was telling him what Darwin writes of his kind,” Marcus said easily, presenting the book. Esca laughed. “And he’s still awake! My, what a perfect match.”

Such teasing was new—with a steward, and the practice of conversing at dinners of late, Esca had grown friendlier. Marcus did not know what to say to it, and so said nothing.

It was this open, playful Esca that had such hold of Marcus’ affections, far more dangerous than the silent, staring nobleman. Before Marcus knew it, he was admitting,

“Sir Charles has quickly become my best friend. I have missed having such a thing…”

“I am glad to hear he is dear to you,” Esca said. He dragged the saddle off Eagle’s back and hung it up. He moved in a way that showed he was aware that Marcus watched him. Before the fortunate man’s very eyes, the open windswept rider folded up neatly behind the mean little countenance of Esca Cunoval.

Marcus was helpless to stop him. Having alluded to his time with Liathan without meaning too, he no longer trusted himself to speak. It was as if his session with Charles had opened a flood gate that could not be closed so quickly. He could think of nothing safe to say.

In the silence, Marcus turned a page in the book, though he had not read a single word, and Esca began to brush Eagle. “Marcus, how are you fairing in that regard?”

“I beg your pardon?”

Esca paused and picked at the bristles on the heavy brush. “I thought I heard you crying again last night.”

Air stopped in Marcus’ lungs, and he coughed. His neck warmed up with embarrassment. He had thought he had been quieter this time. “Oh...yes...it was just a little spell brought on by my thoughts as the birth draws near. It was nothing…”

“You know you may always come to me, regardless of our plans, if darkness is pressing in too much on you during this time. As friends.”

Marcus was speechless. “Thank you...I will bear that in mind.”

Esca nodded and resumed brushing.

                                                                             |||

Marcus laid out the five blank journals he had bound thus far in his new hobby. They ranged in size and material and craftsmanship, but it was evident that his skill was only improving. He thumbed through the newest, sturdiest creation with some pride, but remembered his mother’s words in her latest letter. He had been sending her regular reports of his progress in the art, and she had at last ceased with endless praise to offer some real criticism.

 _They are fine articles of work, but rather plain. If you are to make gifts of them to anyone of importance, then you might think to add decoration of any kind._ This had alerted Marcus to the fact that the holiday season was nearly upon him. Where had the time gone? He was thankful of his condition, for it provided the perfect excuse in avoiding any massive Christmas party of which he had no time to arrange. Instead, he would have a private affair with family and close friends and call it done.

And as for gifts…

He drummed his fingers on the books now, contemplating his options. His mother was absolutely correct. These plain things would not do for a proper gift. But it would be fairly easy to experiment with the material. A cloth cover—perhaps borrowed from beloved, out of fashion clothing—would have a personal touch, to be sure. And indentions stamped into leather would be exceedingly impressive, if he could but learn how such a thing was done. Short of that, delicate touches to the insides would suffice. Flourishes on each corner of the page; wallpaper on the inside of the jacket!

Excited, Marcus set to work, and was still at it some hours later, when Esca at last found him at his work station.

“Is this where you have been hiding all morning?”

“Christmas is only weeks away, I must not dally if I am to present suitable gifts to all my new friends.”

Esca’s smile widened. “Personalized journals, how quaint. Whoever gave you the idea?”

“Mother. And she points out that my first attempts have been horridly plain. Pray—which is the better design for page flourishes?” Marcus presented his two best curly, elegant shapes of which he felt confident in repeating over a hundred times for each volume. When the nobleman said nothing right away, Marcus sighed. “They are both too simple to pass. I was afraid of that.”

 What are you doing right now? Might you have a moment to give me a drawing lesson?”

“It is tea time,” the nobleman said buoyantly, “I have the full hour.”

Marcus checked the clock over the mantel. “Oh! Then let me ring for it to be brought up. As I have said, I cannot afford to put off the work any longer.”

“Let us begin with the simplest shapes so that I may ascertain your abilities…” Esca began, beaming as he arranged paper on which to begin. They passed the tea hour with in-depth conversation on possible design features, based on professionally rendered volumes from the library.

After Marcus confidently displayed the ability to make a straight line and a decent circle, he was tasked to copying more elaborate shapes. Seemingly without looking, Esca drew a series of animal shapes across his page as he sipped his tea. Pushing the parchment across the table at him, he said, “These should not be out of your ability—you need only practice them. Shall I give you until this evening to complete the assignment?”

Marcus looked at the shaded depictions of dogs, cats, ponies, and the like and felt a mild sense of trepidation, for shading looked rather impossible to replicate without instruction. “Yes, thank you."

It took him all afternoon, for the last animal was proving difficult and many scraps of paper went into the fire. He was still at it when Esca returned to the house, face springing into a bright smile when he found Marcus still hard at work on the task. “Time is up, Marcus. Let us see how you have fared.”

He crossed the room, stopping at Marcus’ shoulder, and leaning to peer at the pages before him. Leaning back into the brush of cool air that still clung to Esca’s clothing, Marcus presented his completed work. He was most proud of the cat and the pony had turned out far better than he could have hoped for. When Esca’s grey eyes swept swiftly over the work that had taken Marcus all day, the nobleman smiled, “These are well done. And what of the last one?”

Marcus uncovered the half-finished water bird still struggling to live on his page. Esca’s mouth quirked with amusement. “Is this meant to be a swan?”

Marcus grumbled darkly. “I do not know why it has proven to be so impossible to replicate. This was the best I could do.”

“It looks a goose.” Esca said, amused. Marcus flared with offense that landed on him as humor. He laughed as he snatched the paper away. “Perhaps I am only tired. It will look a swan when next I attempt it.”

“Overall, you have done very well. You may yet be a very accomplished artist one day.”

“Perhaps. But I shall leave off any ambitious works for the time being. The Christmas presents shall be suitably elegant in their simplicity this year.”

“Very well, dear, but your ingenious plan to use wallpaper will make them a little more than simple. The books I once made were simple; yours shall be truly remarkable.”

Remarkable was the exact word repeated on Christmas, when the gifts were exchanged. The Unusual Company were each deeply touched by the sentiment behind each personalized book, and continued to trade and thumb through each other’s uniquely designed diary, muttering continuously, “Remarkable, Marcus, remarkable, truly!”

Pleased to have moved his friends and family with such handmade gifts, Marcus did not have to feign happiness in the slightest, and, dancing slightly to the beautiful music pouring out of Sherlock’s violin, he caressed his baby bump and thanked God for such blessings as friendship and family.

Esca approached him with an equally happy smile, and leaning in, said, “Merry Christmas, Marcus,” before kissing him softly on the lips there in front of everyone. It was simple and brief, but enough to make Marcus’ heart leap up his throat and his knees to shake. Speechless for several heartbeats afterwards, he could do nothing but smile and bump their noses.

“What was that for?” he asked, for they were in no way the spotlight of the evening with Sherlock playing so beautifully before the crowd. Esca smirked up at him, and then at something above Marcus’ head. He looked and saw it—mistletoe. “Of course,” something in his stomach settled at the discovery. It was merely tradition which brought those lips to his, nothing to be alarmed about. “Merry Christmas, Esca.”

The nobleman squeezed his hand, kissed his knuckles, and then returned to his seat, where he could applaud Sherlock’s music with the rest of the company. Marcus remained propped against the entranceway, his lip caught between his teeth, deciding that it would do no harm to cherish forever the memory of that little Christmas kiss from his most important friend.

|||||

January had launched with no incidents. Esca could not be made to stay inside out of the cold no matter what threats of death were laid to him by Marcus, Cottia, or his father, Marcus’ stomach continued to expand with the rowdy life inside of him, and all energies in the Unusual Company were put toward nursing the budding romance between young Cillian and his doctor.

Though debuted twice and with a suitor already, Sherlock did not intend for Cillian to cease improvement. It was his intention for the beautiful boy to have so many impressive feats up his sleeve that he became known for being limitless, and it was Cillian’s intention to take a shortcut by learning exotic skills not well known locally so that mere adequacy looked impressive. For this reason, Marcus found himself learning the Japanese art of origami by proxy.

In the way of many things attempted by them, folding paper became a competition to see who could fold each shape the fastest. Marcus felt he had an edge, having a paper hobby already, but Will had a sharp eye for angles and never made a mistake, while both Sherlock and Cillian had had the instruction book overnight. It was a close match, and made for a lot of laughs and playful threats.

“Ah,” Will smacked his lips, separating a single page from the paper, folding up the rest and tossing it aside, thumping the topmost sheet, “Prince Liathan’s birthday today.”

Marcus’s head snapped up from where he sat across the table, trying desperately to keep his edges straight on his own allotted piece of the newspaper. He looked at the print to double check the fact. Indeed. Huh. Liathan’s birthday…

The others, Sherlock and Cillian, were at best mildly interested in this tidbit of news, the pair of them both so engrossed with their attempts at a swan shape. Even Will didn’t seem particularly excited about the news. He had mentioned it with the air of someone mentioning it might rain later. None of them seemed to realize that Marcus, alone, was affected by the factoid.

He released a breath slowly, shaking his head and marveling at how a day once diligently watched for and loyally celebrated could so nearly slip him by. Indeed, it would have come and gone without his knowledge if not for the paper.

 _I’m free_ , Marcus thought with the makings of a smile about his lips and his hands going to the bulge of his stomach. _It’s so strange_ , Marcus said in his mind—he spoke to the child, a future image of him— _the whole world can change in a heartbeat. We can feel so much and be so sure… and the next thing you know, you are in a world unrecognizable to the first._

His relatively recent shift from secretly pining, secretly fruitful soldier to married Fortunate Lord with the reputation of having no secrets at all—what with the way he displayed his Change for the public opinion—seemed at times like this, so surreal it could not be true. _Life, my cub, will surprise you. There is no predicting it_. His thoughts moved then to Esca and the staggering relief he brought when he made vows to keep Marcus and then went so far as to actually hold true to those promises. A fine man. A damn fine man...

“That’s it, I’m finished,” Will announced, breathing hard in barely contained frustration. He dropped the lopsided, stunted-looking swan and swept it off the table out of his sight. Sherlock had given up an hour ago, and chuckled. Marcus winked at Cillian, for it was now down to one of them as the champion. Whose ever bird turned out best would be the origami master.

Marcus made the final crease and sat his bird up to examine the work—it was as crooked as Will’s. Groaning, he trashed it as Cillian produced a swan with a short neck. The weightless creature was passed around once for inspection, and Sherlock shook his head at it. “It is the best so far. It will do.”

“No,” Marcus said loudly, grabbing the newspaper. “I cannot allow it. I will _not_ be bested by a _swan_.”

His friends chuckled, recalling that his arch nemesis in society was named Swann, but not knowing that Marcus was twice defeated by the creatures when counting the failed drawing test. Having noted the single flaw of Cillian’s work, Marcus paid mind to avoid the mistake, and was at last triumphant, presenting to his laughing friends the perfect replica of a swan to sit among the other creations on the table.

On his way home, Marcus deposited his little paper treasures into the hands of each kind face that he encountered. Peter, the coachman, received a frog, the footman an elephant, and Cottia blushed prettily as she accepted a rose for all her hard work keeping the house in order. He kept only the swan, of which he was most proud, and when Esca came into the house an hour later for dinner, Marcus wasted no time in showing off the fruits of his day’s labor.

“I have mastered the swan at last, my dear!” he proclaimed happily.

“You have been practicing your hand at drawing? I had no idea you were so serious about the lesson.”

“I am quite serious at improving myself,” Marcus announced, “But alas, I have forgone the pencil and have instead found a more suited medium. Look what I managed to produce at Norrington’s today, my dear. None of the others could accomplish the swan, but I persevered.”

“Ah, how very like you!” Esca exclaimed, taking the neatly folded bird from Marcus’ palm. “You have reached perfection beyond the conventional means. Well done, dearest.”

“Thank you.” Marcus said, quite pleased. Esca made to return the bird to Marcus’ hand but the fortunate pushed it back. “I should like you to keep it. I had you in mind as I folded it.”

A small smile played at Esca’s lips, bashful and warm. His eyes soaked up Marcus as if he himself were an impossible fold of paper. “What exceeding charm, Marcus. I confess to being truly moved.”

“Truly? It is but old scrapes of news print.”

“It is. But it reminds me of someone dearly missed. When I was younger, my mother often dispensed small tokens among her friends and families, seemingly for no other reason beyond her desire to do so. Just small trifles of little consequence, but always received with such adulation—I would give almost anything to step into my room and find one of her little parcels again…”

“You kept none of them?”

“Not nearly as many as I ought to have,” Esca said soberly. He smiled up at Marcus, tiping the swan through the air as if in flight. “A mistake I shall never make again.”

His eyes flicked down to Marcus’ distended stomach, and it occurred to Marcus then that the worried whispers of his harming himself or the child with his gallivanting about the village had managed to get to Esca, whereas they had yet to penetrate Marcus’ surety that all would be well. To cease such negative imaginings, Marcus bumped his shoulder into Esca and promised, “I will always be here, my friend.”

**|||||**

It could not have been expected of Marcus to spend the whole of his condition on his feet. By the break of February, he found himself quite constantly bedridden with sore feet and aching back, so heavy that he fell over unless holding onto a walking stick. Therefore, to avoid that wretched old-man’s cane, he ceased to knock about freely, and began impatiently counting the days. By his best calculations, it was due literally any day.

On the morning of the fourteenth, Marcus woke from a fitful sleep, already aching for he had never been in bed this long, to find that a red card the size of his face sat awaiting him on his breakfast tray. Snatching it up, he found a remarkable sketch of himself asleep in the bed in the very position he had woken in, suggesting that Esca had been in to sketch him and out of the room moments before Marcus had woke; indeed it could have been the click of the latch behind him that had stirred Marcus from his restless dreams of being thin and strong again.

Inside the card, he found a slip of paper on which marched a series of elegant animals and shapes with numbers and arrows illustrating which order to draw the lines and in which direction to move the pencile. A new art lesson. Beneath Esca’s neat handwriting said,

_For my darling Valentine—_

_Here is the next lesson to test your hand. I challenge you to perfect them in whatever creative means imaginable, but must warn you to act with caution, for your art can come to life._

_For proof you might look in the garden,_

_Yours,_

_Lord Esca_

More than ready for an excuse to stretch his legs, Marcus climbed carefully out of the bed and rang for the valet. Once dressed, he made his way slowly downstairs on Stephanos’ arm, and crossed to the back garden.

“I shall not be surprised if it is a pony. What with the child so near, it will stand as a gift to both of us. I imagine no child of Lord Esca’s shall escape without a pony. If it is not a pony then it must be a cat. I drew nothing else with enough skill to be considered--”

His words were silenced as they stepped outside into the nippy air. A massive white goose waddled around the fountain, squawking and flapping its wings. Tied about its neck with twine was a sign bearing the words _your swan_. Marcus double looked Esca, saw his quirk of amusement, and laughter broke out of him, bringing tears to his eyes.

“ _A goose_?”

“Oh, but he is a swan, remember.”

“Hm, how awfully clever,” Marcus teased. “What a successful surprise. I thought for sure it would be a pony.”

“I have already given you a horse.”

“Yes, but with the child so near, I thought it would stand as a gift to him as well.”

Esca grinned, “Such a thing requires the mother’s permission. But now that I have been granted it, I can purchase the sweetest Shetland pony for his first birthday that I have had my eye on.”

“Indeed, I expected all children of your house would get five or six ponies apeice, but a pet goose is unexpected.”

“Yes, I thought it would make a nice addition to our collected commodities.”

“He is a mother-gander?”

“But of course;" Esca presented bread for Marcus to hand out, " _and_ you'll note he is a rather larger than average goose _.”_

Marucs laughed fondly for the way Esca stood so tall with his chest out and his chin up. "You seem to have a knack for rooting us out and persuading us to stay with you." e fed the gander some crumbs, “I know I will love him as much as I do Sir Charles. Thank you, dear.”

“You are most welcome.”

||||

Marcus knocked softly but received no answer. Carefully, he opened the door and entered the dark room. Esca was asleep on his stomach again, arms trapped beneath him. Marcus sat his candle on the table and knelt at the side of the bed.

“Cunovul,” he said softly.

Esca stirred but quickly dropped off again.

“Cunovul,” Marcus said once more, this time catching the man’s firm shoulder and shaking. Esca snorted awake. “Marcus?” he sat up quickly. “What—is something the matter?”

Marcus rested back on his heels. “I cannot sleep.”

Esca sat still for a stretch of time, face at a loss. He knew not what he was to do about it. Marcus instantly regretted the weakness that had brought him in here. He clambered to his feet with the great effort it took these days. “I am sorry to wake you. I know not what I was thinking. You have had a tiring day of smiling and conversing with dull people when you would rather be riding, and tomorrow is nothing but the same—I should not have bothered you. Forgive me.”

“No, no,” Esca said, reaching to stay him. He patted the bed. “Sit down, Marcus. It is alright. You were right to come to me. I did ask you to.”

“But you were sound asleep—“

“Marcus, please, I would like to be useful to you.”

Gratefully, Marcus climbed onto the bed with his back to the headboard, thankful to have his frozen legs under the warm blankets at last. Esca sat beside him, and his voice was muffled by a yawn as he asked, “What is on your mind?”

He tried to find a place to begin, but there was no place. He could go back and back and back until he was talking about his childhood—his troubles were a puzzle, and he could not work it out enough to voice them. He shrugged and said the first thing that came to him.

“What if I am a terrible father?”

“Marcus, what is this nonsense? You will be a truly wonderful father.”

“I am not so sure. My own could not love me for failing, in his eyes, to be a perfect son. And already this child has a disadvantage, for I have grown to hate his origins. What if he looks like Liathan? What if I cannot even look upon the face of my own child for the bad memories it brings?”

“Look into your heart, Marcus. You love this child. I know you do. Do not fear it.”

…But he _did_ fear it. Not the child. Love—the love which grew despite his efforts, day by day as Esca fought for him and smiled for him. Marcus feared the consequences of giving into his feelings that could very well be nothing but the Change tampering with his sensibilities. The last thing he wished to do was capture Esca and then crush him when clarity returned, but Marcus was here in Esca’s bed because he was so, _so_ tired of comforting himself.

“You will not be alone in the task of parenthood,” Esca said softly. “You will have me. This child is to be mine. I will treat him as mine, audience or no. He need never know the truth if you wish.”

Silence followed this for Marcus did not know what to say. He could scarcely believe his luck, the man he had picked out of circumstance and convenience, the man he had made a fool of, the man he had betrayed would not only be kind to him, but would raise another man’s child as his own. Would forgive Marcus all his mistakes…

It was quite astounding. Marcus was suddenly aware of Esca’s nearness in the big warm bed.

“Oh!” Marcus’ hands flew to his stomach, and he laughed. “He is kicking again. That was a big one!”

“Do you think he was kicking in agreement? Or was he protesting my fatherhood?”

Marcus’ laugh was cut short by another kick, only this time it felt less like movement from the child and more like movement _around_ the child. Strange.

Esca scooted down in the bed, lying back with a sigh, and his fingers trailed down his side much like Marcus had considered doing to him at their first picnic. “Is this notion of not loving your own flesh and blood all that was troubling you, s’am?”

Marcus slid down, too, and because he was distracted by the strange feeling coming over him, he had to ask, “Hm?”

Esca’s laughter was breathy, “Oh-ho, beware, Marcus, for now I’m beginning to wonder if you didn’t just make all of that up as an excuse to get into my bed and try one of your tricks.”

“My tricks?” Marcus asked, amusement lilting in his voice and erasing his concern. He felt well, after all, so it must have been a fluke—and, oh, Esca was so warm and _so near_.

“Yes, your tricks,” Esca’s voice was teasing, “You are trying to seduce your husband into a night of sordid, lustrous intercourse, admit it. You want nothing more than to corrupt me with your soldiering ways—but I will have none of it. I know what I want, Marcus, and I will settle for nothing less. I want your heart and it's sincere devotion.”

Marcus could not contain his laughter and the sound filled the dark of the room, breaking the spell that prompted men to speak quietly when they were in the dark. He said, “I should never have advised you thusly. It has left me celibate in my times of need.”

“A fast cure will be to declare your undying love for me—an immediate union after something like that will not be so sordid, I think.”

Marcus laughed again, shaking a little—with anticipation? “I am your husband; could it ever be sordid to consummate a marriage?”

Esca’s voice had sobered considerably when he replied a beat too late, “Marcus, think before you continue with this; I feel I will not be able to stop a second time.”

The nobleman had remained on his side of the bed, made no move toward Marcus in the dark, but his voice was low and swelling with breath. “I know you do not love me, therefore when you are near, I act with extreme caution, because I have born witness to true heartbreak and fear it for myself; if I can still lose you, I will not take you.”

“But we are married,” Marcus said passed the heart in his throat, “I can hardly wash my hands of you.”

“…Of course you could,” Esca’s voice was hard but not cruel and the distance between them in the bed remained, “The laws of marriage will matter not if love finds you again—I should hope _nothing_ will stand between you and whoever it is you love…And then, I must admit, it is troubling that not even the laws of your heart restricted you when you promised yourself to me yet still belonged to him. Therefore forgive me, but the fact that we are married is not enough of a reassurance, Marcus. I cannot trust you will follow the rules…” Esca drew a deep breath and breathed out, “But, God help me, I still want you more than I should.”

Marcus coughed, and—swallowed whole by the warm rush inside, at utter surrender to the happiness within his reach—he intended to take advantage of Esca’s momentary weakness, but just then the baby moved again in that strange way. With it came a sharp stabbing pain which later Marcus would describe as what it must feel like to be entered without the proper preparations made.

When Marcus jerked and curled in on his baby bump, whimpering from the unexpected and acute pain, Esca sat straight up, “Marcus?”

It took him a moment to find his voice and it sounded as pale as he felt. “It’s coming.”

“What is coming?” Esca asked, quite ignorantly.

Marcus cried out as the pain came again and with it a rush of warm fluid in his nightshirt, as if he’d wet himself only the liquid came from the back. Marcus swore and then cried,

“It is time! The baby is coming!”


	17. The Singular Event that Changed Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short version: not dead
> 
> We want to begin with a big fat apology for having gone so long without an update. Real Life got in the way of Fun Time (aka M/E sexy times). But these last couple of days we've managed to crank out three chapters! (Which we are, of course, giving to you all at once to make up for the long wait!) And get this: the ending of this beast is actually in sight! Whew.

Guern was summoned as well as Nurse Sasstica. Extra linen and towels came in stacks and were spread all about Marcus as if he was about to be split open like a watermelon.

Esca was told to leave the room but Marcus grabbed him by the scruff of the neck before he could get out of the bed. “No! No! Don’t leave me!”

Alarmed, but unable to free himself of the slightly painful grip, Esca laughed a little shrilly, panicked. “Marcus, I will be in the way—“

“I’m scared,” the solider admitted in a gasp, trembling. His skin was raised in gooseflesh, and his mouth was dry. All he knew was that he needed someone who cared--really cared--to be near him now.

“Stay please---AHHH!” he shouted in pain and clenched tightly against it, hips bucking up. Esca reached for him and held his sides helplessly.

“If he is to stay, he will help,” Guern said firmly, provoking a gasp from the nurse. It was exceedingly improper for any man to be witness to a birth, but most especially the husband. Then again, Guern was a man, and Marcus very nearly one, so that rule was already well broken. The doctor was either oblivious to his unconventional ways or uncaring. “My lord, you can help him get ready.”

Esca was white as his rumpled night shirt. He swallowed and nodded mutely.

The entire world had begun to narrow for Marcus. He heard not what orders the doctor gave, or why Esca was suddenly climbing back into the bed, pulling him into position. He straddled Esca’s legs with his back to Guern, his arms around Esca’s shoulders, but he found it comforting and thus very welcome. Marcus could not go through this battle alone; he had not known that until just now. Had he had any inkling that his courage would leave him thus, he would have asked his mother to be here.

He had not wanted his mother’s embrace in a very long time.

“You must breathe steadily, Marcus,” Esca said, and his voice was high, shaky. “Do as Guern says, he knows how to help you through this!”

“Breathe?” Marcus asked, because that sounded like the most ridiculous order to give. Of course he was breathing! He was living was he not? But the next pain to hit him made him feel like possibly he was dying, so he turned his thoughts to breathing, to staying alive. In. Out. In. Out---more pain--

“AAHHH! IT HURTS!” he roared. “My leg—Christ, I can’t stay like this.” He tried to drop from his knees, but with a sharp command from the doctor, Esca held his hips and kept him where he was.

“You have to, Marcus,” Guern said, “If you want off that knee, push the little one out first.”

“But his leg—“ Esca started and then silenced himself at what must have been a stern look from the doctor. Marcus dropped his forehead on Esca’s shoulder, moaning and whimpering in pain, attempting to put his weight on his good leg. Without being asked, Esca started to massage the wounded thigh. It helped.

When another contraction hit, Guern shouted orders to push when he said to and Marcus rode the convulsion out by releasing the pain through his best war yell. He was squeezing Esca’s shoulders with strength to snap bone, he could tell, but he could not let go, and the nobleman did not protest. Esca was panting as if running for his life, and coaching him blindly. “You can do this! I know you can! You were born to do this! It’ll be over soon!”

Sweat had beaded on Marcus’ skin and now dripped, ran down his face and neck and body. He was shaking, but he had reached a familiar place inside himself, a calm sort of place, where the majority of the action had run together like a ruined watercolor painting, and it was all happening _outside_ , but here inside, he could think. He could plan. He could win the battle.

He straddled Esca's lap, arms looped about his neck, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused and nostrils flaring. He hardly realized the soothing way Esca circled the flat of his free hand (he was still massaging Marcus' thigh with the other one) against his back, the way he intently studied the detail of Marcus' face at this close proximity. The convulsions were on a regular pattern, and he waited for each one, sick with anticipation and fear, but confident and ready to mount the pain. The trouble was that it was getting worse with each one, and if this carried on much longer, he thought he would die of it from simple biological law. Esca was all he had to cling to, to squeeze, when the pain hit the hardest it ever had. Esca cried out from the grip.

“GET IT OUT OF ME!” Marcus roared.

“Work with us, Frtnt. Cunoval!” Guern roared back. “It is time for you to push now! When I say, you bear down like you have never bore down on anything before! Are you ready? Put him to the side, now, a little, sir, and spread him for me,” Guern directed Esca.

Esca leaned sideways and Marcus was pushed past him to prop on his arms on the mattress, resting across Esca’s lap. Reaching over his back, Esca held his cheeks, keeping him open in a way that would be humiliating if the pain in his leg and body weren’t so intense. Warm oil suddenly ran over him and, by another direction from Guern, suddenly Esca was helping the contractions to open him even further. Esca’s fingers sliding around the rim of Marcus’ fundament momentarily took his breath away. It registered distantly that Esca was touching him as a lover does, but the whole of his body was in such a tumultuous upheaval that he could hardly enjoy it beyond what relief it brought. With the slick press and stroke of Esca's fingers, Marcus' husband eased the tension brought on by the contractions.

The mother man tried to remember to breathe at all, let alone to do so evenly. He tried to remember the little life he fought for, but all he could think of was when the next pain would hit, how bad it would be. He spoke without thought, ordering Esca, "Really stretch me before it hits; get ahead of it." And when that yielded no results he barked, "Press _harder,_  Esca! Add more fingers!"

"Wha?--" Esca asked, (perhaps astonished to be asked to add another when he already had three in) but before any more could be said it hit him where Esca was touching as if a dull spear impaled; such a writhing, contorting pain, familiar by now, but _always_ just a little more than Marcus was prepared for. He cried out.

“PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!” they shouted at him.

Marcus bore down hard. He pushed with every muscle in his body. He forgot to breathe. His vision tunneled. When the pain receded, he collapsed, gasping for breath. The doctor was shouting, and Esca was gasping along with him and with a towel from somewhere, reaching back to mop his face. He said, “Marcus, _even breaths_ , you must keep your breaths even!”

“I know,” he panted helplessly. He was worn down; he could not push like that again. Sweat dripped in his eyes, and he could not see, and he could not sit up, and the cramping in his leg was torture and he wanted his weight off it, but Esca and Guern both held him dutifully in place on his hands and knees across Esca’s lap. Lifting, he dropped his head on Esca’s collarbone, “I can’t—“

“Yes you can!”

“I don’t want to—“

“NOW! AGAIN! PUSH!” Guern said. He had likewise gotten a hold of the pain’s pattern and instructed that Marcus push through each attack. He was not ready, and Marcus screamed, cried out to God and to anyone who could hear him, who could maybe take the pain away, or help him defeat it. They later told him later that he shouted an order to his men on the battlefield, though he would never remember doing that afterwards, and insisted Esca was making it up.

The pain came quickly now, but continued to get worse in a pattern that was wholly unfair. Marcus had not the strength to go on without rest between them, but he had to. He was angry with himself and with the doctor’s orders to rest these long nine months—surely he should have been exercising for this, staying in fit health instead of being so idle? It had softened him. He was cursing the doctor, and he would remember that bit, because it was important.

“You’re a horrible doctor!” He ripped at Guern.

“That’s right!” the doctor shouted back. “Focus on me, focus all your hate and pain at me! _Push_ it at me! COME ON!”

With the next attack, Marcus did just that, and it was much easier, because now the pain was not the enemy to fight. Now the pain was his weapon against the idiot doctor. Esca’s voice was on his shoulder, his strength there in front of him, in his arms to take, always there and promising, “You can do this, you are so strong, Marcus, My God, you are doing it!”

Marcus had to agree. He _was_ doing it; no one else in this room was doing half the work he was. This sent him into blinding rage. He funneled that anger into strength to keep pushing. Metaphorically, he could see the light up head, the end of the dark forest. He was almost free. The battle was almost over; one last push. Esca choked and cried-- "I see it! I see the head, Marcus, My God!" A few seconds later, the doctor and Esca and Sasstica were saying the same thing.

“One last push, fortunate, one really good one, can you do it?”

Esca’s lips were on his neck, and his prayers escaped on every breath. “Please, please, one more. Just one more.”

Marcus’ eyes had watered and spilled over, the tears mixed with the sweat on his face. A tremor went through him, a precursor to the pain. He gritted his teeth.

“Water,” he rasped. Sasstica handed Esca a cup who handed it quickly to him. Marcus swallowed a gulp, enough to wet his throat, to grease the next scream, because it _would_ be big.

He breathed as deeply as he could. His exhausted body felt weak and pliable, but he summoned every last drop of strength in himself—he would use it all this time, no reserves for the next attack. If it was not over after this one, he would die a glorious death.

He screamed. Esca's arms tightened around him. Marcus pushed with all he had left to shove, physical strength as well as emotional. He _hated_ and he pushed. He _feared_ and he pushed harder. And when he had pushed through all the hate and fear within himself, the next thing that coursed through him was the reason he was pushing at all: love.

It was a second wind. Strength to bring that love into the world shuddered through him, and numbed the core of his pain, deadened it right at its absolute worst, and in a rush of flesh and fluids, it was over. Marcus was empty, and he was alive and full, filled with the sounds of a crying babe.

He could not see; all was every color run together. He could scarcely breathe, and he could not move an inch. He had collapsed. Esca maneuvered him down to lie on his back and helped him straighten his bad leg, but he was told to keep holding that leg up in the air, to keep Marcus spread. The soldier mother groaned weakly at the distant twinges of pain in his joints and his center. Guern worked there on the foot of the bed for a second and then was gone with the crying baby. Meanwhile, there was more coming out of Marcus as he was held open, another rush and Sasstica said something about the after birth being successfully delivered as she allowed Esca to lower his leg and then covered Marcus with a blanket. It was far too hot for that, but it was a relief to be modest again.

“Marcus!” Esca was crying reverently, bending over him, his arms around him, then his hands were mopping at his face again, this time with a rag that had been dipped in cold water which was heaven for his burning skin. “Marcus, I can’t believe it, you are _magnificent_!”

The mother man swallowed and panted, lifted heavy arms, and blinked until his vision was clear. “The baby? Let me hold him...”

Guern chuckled fondly. “She is a girl, s’am,” he announced, and her amazing, full, wailing cry stuttered as her lungs worked to pull in more breath.

Esca gasped and laughed over his shoulder. “A girl? Marcus, we’ve a daughter! What do you think of that?”

“Of course she is a girl!” Marcus rasped. His throat had dried out again, and his vision was threatened once more as the bundle of screaming joy was placed gently is his tired arms. Her face was scrunched and red, dry and fuzzy like a little peach. She was completely bald, and calmed quickly in his arms, validating his existence as a mother man.

He laughed and he cried and his first thought was ridiculously _Mother will be happy she was right_ , because Harriet alone had rejected Marcus’ use of the pronoun _He_. The new _sater familias_ sniffed and gently rocked his baby. “Hello, little angel. Hello. Welcome.”

Esca laughed wetly. “Look how tiny she is!”

“Look how _real_ she is,” Marcus said, unfolding her towel so that he could see her head to toe. He lifted her naked to hold like an offering to the gods before him. She was fuzzy all over, pink and blotchy red, and fussed at being unwrapped. She squirmed, toes and fingers spread wide, uncontrolled. She gurgled and began to cry.

“Oh, I’m sorry, cub, sammy’s sorry, oh,”  Marcus quickly felt himself becoming upset because she was. He rewrapped her and held her close to calm them both. He could not take his eyes off her face, her clear little eyes blinking curiously, but sleepily, up at him. "It seems the birth was equally as exhausting for her." he murmured wetly, dashing away tears before they fell on her.

"It must be a long way to come to us from heaven," Sasticca cooed, pressing her fingers gently to the top of the newborn's head, "Congratulations, my lords."

Marcus sniffed watery eyes still on his child. There was no telling how many minutes went by.

“May I hold her?” Esca asked.

Truthfully, Marcus was not finished holding her, but he did not want to seem selfish, and after all Esca had stayed and helped deliver her when all decorum demanded he should not. Marcus felt it was the least he could do. He nodded, and because Sasstica was still watching, said softly, “Go to Papa. Meet your Papa!”

Esca met Marcus’ eye, and the agreement was made. Esca would be her Papa, even in private. She would never know of their deceptions.

Marcus blinked away tears as he handed the baby gently over to Esca’s eager arms. The nobleman was smiling broadly, eyes still wet, and he stared at her for a long minute before taking a deep breath. “Our little princess. That’s you, you gorgeous girl. You’re a princess. Yes you are.”

Guern chuckled, and a hiccup fell out of the tired mother man as he dropped a hand on Esca’s thigh. “My dear,” he said meaningfully. “Don’t spoil her.”

Esca gave Marcus a secretive, devilish grin and winked. “As you wish, my love.”

The nobleman seemed not to have noticed his endearment. Marcus sank his teeth into the back of his smile and tried to consider it as a fluke, or simply reflected from the unconditional love that Marcus felt burning through his body for this little miracle. They sat together smiling wetly at her little face without another word.

All the extra linens and towels were removed, and Sasstica carried them out of the room, leaving behind her happy congratulations, and Guern removed his spectacles and cleaned them.

“S’am, how do you feel?” he asked.

Marcus felt like none of that had just happened. He was sore, obviously, but that was a very minor bother in the face of so much joy. “Tired,” he intoned truthfully.

“You did very well,” Guern said, impressed. “I told you, a mother man of your build has nothing to worry about. Birthed a healthy baby in under two hours, and you’re alert and ready for more, look at you!”

After all the accounts Marcus had read, he knew to what the doctor was referring. Like some women, some men were just not built to birth children easily, and often there was blood and surgeries that took place in the delivery. Though the extra sheets had been spoiled by a number of organic fluids, there had been no great rush of blood, and no cause for true emergency in the hectic events of the last hour. For that Marcus thanked God.

They chuckled. “I am ready for bed, honestly.”

“Of course you are. Congratulations, both of you.” He gripped both their hands at once. Esca returned the baby to Marcus and got out of the bed to hug the doctor, clapping his shoulder loudly. Marcus settled into all of the pillows with the unbelievably small but solid weight of his child on his chest over his heart instead of in his stomach over his bladder. His eyes drooped closed. He was truly content for the first time in his life. That gaping hole was gone, that hazy understanding of himself was suddenly starkly outlined. He was a mother man. He needed no one but this infant fussing sweetly at his teat.

“Would you like to be alone?” Esca’s voice reached him from afar and it took Marcus a moment to realize the question was directed at him. Guern had gone. They were alone together. Esca continued, “I can take your room for the night.”

“No, I want you to stay. We do.” Marcus amended. A smile of surprise and happiness broke across Esca’s face, and he climbed once more into the bed. He had no pillows but said nothing of it. He rested on his side and propped his head on his arm, watched Marcus as Marcus watched the sleeping baby in his arms.

“I love you,” Marcus whispered to her. He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “You fill my heart up.”

“Do you still fear you will be a poor sammy?” Esca whispered with a smile.

Marcus shook his head sheepishly. “But I do fear she will one day hate us, if she ever learns the truth.”

“We will deal with that if the day ever comes. Until then, she will have two doting fathers, and the run of this place.”

Marcus laughed. Esca reached to stroke her downy head, let his hand rest on Marcus’ stomach only briefly. “What are we going to name her? Did you think of girl names?”

“Mother did, she’s always prepared.”

“And?”

“I reject every one of them, of course.” Marcus said matter-of-factly. The name had just occurred to him, and it felt correct. “This is the new young lady of Brigantes, Miss Alice Aquila Cunoval.”

“Alice?” Esca repeated, breathless. “Are you sure?”

“She is sure,” Marcus said, daring to reveal his sudden fancy that the thought had come from her in a strange mother-man/mancub connection. “It is her name.”

Esca sat up, and his palm closed tightly around the nape of Marcus’ neck and squeezed companionably. He looked down at her, a daughter named for the mother he had lost, and sniffed. “I don’t know what to say, Marcus…”

“Thank you for staying,” Marcus said softly. His eyes were heavy, but he wanted to say this before he slept. “I could not have done it without you.”

“Thank you for asking me to stay,” Esca said. “You have made me very happy, allowing me to be a part of her beginning.”

Marcus held his cub with one arm and took the nobleman’s hand in the other, slotting their fingers together, feeling Esca’s hand instantly respond with a gentle squeeze. “You’ve saved us from the life of a bastard,” he slurred nonsensically before drifting off.

|||

Marcus woke shortly after, and found that he was cuddling with Esca once more. The man lay on his side, his back to Marcus, who had pressed against him, fitting their bodies together as two spoons, an arm over Esca's waist, a leg over his legs, caging him fully in place. It was the single most comforting feeling in the world, to wake and have his immediate spaces filled with a warm, breathing, hard little body. Marcus grinned. And then--in a rush, a punch to the heart--he remembered Alice.

How could he have forgotten her for even a moment? She was not in his arms where he last saw her, nor was she in the bed. He jolted upright, felt a stab of pain from his stiff body, and his noise of discomfort woke his bed fellow.

“The baby?”

“In her bed,” Esca slurred with a light grunt of amusement. He rubbed his face to wake up. “What time is it?”

Marcus looked around the room. The servants had brought in a bassinette for Alice and extra pillows for Esca, and everything else they would need to care for the baby through the night. The sun was minutes away from rising, and a brownish dusk filled the room.

He extracted himself from Esca’s arms and the blankets, and went to the frilly contraption set up at the foot of the bed. Moving was rough; he had to walk tenderly, but Marcus did not like her being so far away, where he could not feel her wriggle; why wasn’t she crying? He checked to make sure she was breathing. She was; sound asleep and perfect. His heart hurt.

“She is well, Marcus,” Esca said. Marcus straightened stiffly and took a short turn around the room to loosen his muscles.

“Should you be walking about like that?”

“I must. It hurts to stay still and stiff.”

“When I think back on the delivery, I can scarcely believe _I_ lived through it, thus I do not know how you managed it, Marcus, truly.”

Marcus laughed, proud. He had discovered strength greater than what he had possessed as a soldier. He winked, teased, “I do not think it is something a mere man can endure.”

“On that I agree. Good job you are not a mere man after all, Captain,” Esca said with a special tone in his voice, and Marcus knew it was because he was wearing just his night shirt, and it was mostly open at the collar, revealing most of his breasts as he walked about the room like this was perfectly natural. It made him feel strangely beautiful, despite the definite layer of grime he could feel coating his skin and hair from the heavy sweat of child birth.

He wanted to climb into the bed and see what Esca would do if he liked it so much, but there were instincts triggering knowledge in Marcus’ head, all of the books he had read on child care. The sun was now up, and he had walked off most of the soreness, so he returned to the bassinette and picked her up.

“She must eat.”

“She’s sleeping,” Esca protested.

“Only because she doesn’t know it is time to eat. I must teach her.”

Marcus settled back into bed and pushed his shirt aside to reveal the breast above her face. In his peripherals, he saw Esca look away from the exposed mound of flesh, the stark nipple. Marcus smiled to himself, secretly loving that he had such power over the man, but he returned his focus to the mission at hand.

His whole little world woke, blinking her clear little blue eyes, and fussed before Marcus could convince her that the nipple belonged in her mouth. She soon latched and began to pull the milk from him hungrily. He was tender and she was eager and Marcus bit his lip at the strange, slightly painful but overall wonderful sensation.

The nobleman had gotten over whatever modesty had overruled him earlier and watched, unblinking, until she had had her fill and fell back to sleep with the nipple still in her mouth. Marcus felt himself start to gain color at the idea that Esca was not concealing his desires for this body.

There was a knock on the door. Esca startled and shook his head as if to clear it. “Yes,” he called as Marcus covered himself.

Cottia entered with a tray and Guern close behind her. The doctor looked pleased, having caught Marcus’ movement and deduced that the first feeding was done. “Good, good. She showed a healthy appetite?”

He nodded.

“And what of your own? You must be ravished.”

“Yes,” Marcus said. He caught a whiff of the tray and his mouth watered.

“And after you eat, you will go down the hall to your room where they are drawing you a hot bath.” Guern ordered. “You must soak; it will help with the soreness.”

“Thank you, Cottia,” Marcus said as the tray was put in the bed. She motioned for the baby and Marcus, with a playful grin, held her closer with a shake of his head. Cottia grinned back and put her hands on her hips. Esca's hand fell on Marcus' knee, "Do not be greedy, my love."

Chortling, Marcus surrendered the sleeping babe to the woman. The transfer caused her to stir a little and Marcus' heart lurched, but Cottia deftly put the baby to her chest and began to sway and within moments, Alice was asleep once more.

"You're a natural," Esca said to her with a flick of his eyelid and a grin. Marcus' face and chest flashed hot and he for one wild moment nearly took Alice back and told Cottia to leave him with _his_ husband. He did not, of course. He did, unconsciously, drop a hand over Esca's still resting there on his knee. He didn't notice the way Esca stopped mid-chew of the morsel he had already swiped from the tray, and looked at the hand on his, then up at Marcus.

Geurn left and Cottia put the child back in her bed following him out. Marcus settled into his pillows and in the same fashion as before, he did not even have to lift his head from the pillow. Esca patiently handed him morsel after morsel until he was fed. When he sat to drain the cup of tea, he hissed with pain. Esca helped him to the bath after he made it all the way to the door and his bad leg buckled from under him, weak from the strain put to it.

In his room, servants stopped pouring in pans of water heated from the fireplace, and, curtsying with congratulations, left him in the care of his husband. As soon as they were alone, Marcus untied his shirt. “I can do this, thank you.”

“Are you sure?” Esca asked.

“Unless you just want to help,” Marcus said. He had meant it to be some kind of joke, though he did not know why he thought for a moment it would be funny, especially when he knew Esca wanted to stay. When _he_ wanted Esca to stay.

Esca helped him pull the nightshirt over his head. Very suddenly, Marcus was completely naked in front of Esca for the first time.

He looked down at his body, at the breasts that were now heavy with milk, and his flabby stomach, and long, pale legs, hairy toes. Over a decade of swimming with friends in the army without shame and now he covered the imperfections as much as he could; feeling that same strange sense of bashfulness as when he had lain with Liathan. It was different than swimming, with many others and no sentimental feelings. One by one, the memory of Esca’s kisses, his passionate words, his long quiet stares, and the recent adoption of the endearment, _my love,_ made his bare skin far too vulnerable.

Uncomfortable with the stretch marks and flabbiness--for at least with Liathan he had been in the body of a Roman god--he self-consciously glanced up at Esca’s face to read his reaction, and that was all it took for Marcus to forget his own discomfort. Esca was watching him with that deer-like expression, total stillness in his strong little frame, and those ears. Marcus laughed lightly, breaking the nobleman out of it. Esca blinked, and then he met Marcus’ eye and did that unblinking stare thing again.

“It is alright, Marcus. We’re married men, remember? Just get in the water quickly. It is getting cold.”

Awkwardly, they worked out how to get Marcus into the tub. Esca draped one of Marcus’ arms over his shoulders and once the mother man had stepped into the water, they both sank to their knees, with Marcus leaning heavily on the smaller frame, biting back groans of discomfort as strained muscles were forced to work.

Once the big splashes were over, and Marcus was seated in the tub as comfortably as it was going to get with his current level of soreness, he closed his eyes, willing the soothing heat to seep into his weary body.

“But we’re not properly married men,” Marcus added when he’d gone over Esca’s words in his head. He sighed. “We won’t be until there’s some kind of consu-mation.” A cramp put a catch in his voice, and Marcus groaned with frustration. “Damn this! My whole body feels useless and broken.” If this was a strong recovery for a mother man, then Marcus was sincerely frightened for the delicate ones. He must warn Cillian to never have children; the boy would not survive it.

Suddenly, warm hands caressed his tensed shoulders and began to rub. “Relax,” Esca sounded amused, “I knew you ought not to have walked about.”

“Well...” was all Marcus could think to say because what Esca was doing to his neck and back felt magnificent, and he just did not want to admit he was wrong.

“Nurse Sasstica was surprised to find Alice so lively,” Esca said, “I fear she suspects she isn’t premature.”

“Of course no one believes she is premature, Esca. You are forgetting what I told Will Norrington while I helped him with his troubles. We were so drawn to one another right from the start that we could not wait. Before the wedding you were keen to have me top in our couplings so that I would not be changed, but one tumble in the stables became many, and before we knew it we were meeting in secret on quiet hot nights, under your magic willow, and in the frenzy, we must have lost sight of logic, because here she is, happy and healthy yet just eight months since our wedding night.”

The images of the fantasy had been playing out in bright colors behind Marcus’ closed eye lids at night, and it was a little late before he realized he need not have given so much detail—the time and place, and temperature—but after weeks of having the story germinating in his mind to stave off the cold and the dark, such facts had written themselves.

“Well...” was all Esca said to it. Was it Marcus’ imagination that he sounded uncomfortable? Esca’s hands worked for a moment more, and then were gone, as was the nobleman’s presence behind him. “Ring for more hot water, or if you need help out. I must meet with our steward for the day.”

Too embarrassed to open his eyes, Marcus nodded and saluted lazily.

|||

The next morning, the Old Man was wheeled into the room to meet his granddaughter. He was not lucid, and at first thought the bald baby was Esca brand new, and seemed to think his wife Alice was in just the other room. Once Esca convinced his father that the baby was a girl, the Old Man blinked at her, smacked his lips and said, “Oh, I see. Then whose is she Cardoc? This can’t be your cousin Maev’s baby can it? I didn’t think she would be born until the spring! What have they named her, do you know?”

“Alice,” Esca told him. “After Mother, isn’t that nice?”

The Old Man smiled and chuckled. “Yes, that is nice of them. I had no idea Allie was their favorite aunt. Did you, Allie?” he asked Sasstica. She answered softly that she had not.

Esca chuckled, eyes wet, as he pretended along. A moment later, the old lord’s mind turned again, and he thought he was still in the fort. Sasstica took it as a sign to take him back to bed and wheeled him off. The entire thing made Esca visibly tired, and Marcus did something bold.

Whether it would go over well or not, he had decided to be as much of a comfort for this man as Esca had been during the delivery. He pulled Esca back into the bed to rest. The nobleman complied silently, and to Marcus’ enjoyment, Esca even seemed to enjoy the attention.

Marcus combed Esca’s hair back from his face, and was struck by its length. “You need a haircut,” he said. Esca’s eyes had fallen closed, and without opening them, he lifted one side of his mouth, but it fell quickly and he sighed, troubled. Marcus continued to stroke him, finding it immensely entertaining and strangely gratifying. As he could not pet the baby every second of the day, for she did not like to be touched when she was sleeping, this was a fair substitute. Marcus had the urge to dote, and Esca’s spirit had the need for it.

“Cheer up, Cunoval,” Marcus said, thumping him lightly on the chest, “I know you are sad, but let us be happy. Let us celebrate life’s little blessings. The baby, and the horses, and, true, your father is living in the past, but it is a happy past, where he has his wife and three sons. Hm? Are we not all blessed with happy lives?”

Esca smiled softly and cracked open an eye to peer at Marcus as if he no longer trusted that it was the same man he’d slept beside for so many nights. And, Marcus wasn’t really. He felt like a new man; a mother one.

A large, appreciative smile broke across the weary man’s face, and Esca rolled onto his side, inadvertently moving closer as he did so. “Yes. But had I a choice, I would have them all be the same life together, to share.”

The nobleman drifted off before Marcus could think of anything reassuring to say. Esca napped at Marcus’ side until lunch, when he snapped awake and looked around. Then he saw that Marcus was nursing Alice again and smiled bashfully before he arched his back to stretch, rubbing his face hard as if to scrub away a dream.

Marcus felt like being a little wicked, so asked innocently, “What are you grinning about?”

To his surprise, Esca denied nothing. With the bashfulness flipping upside down to match Marcus’ own wickedness, Esca shrugged and made a gesture to the whole picture of mother man and child before him, “Simply a beautiful sight to wake up to… I must draw it,” he insisted, moving from the bed to locate his sketch book.

Marcus felt warmth gather in his stomach. He had never imagined he would take such pleasure in being considered beautiful instead of handsome. He rocked the baby happily, and then glanced at Esca, who returned to the bed and began making quick, preliminary strokes on the page. The man focused on his work, grinning, until there was a copy of the moment forever captured on the page. Marcus leaned close to admire the picture. “Oh, that is beautiful work; well done.”

Esca leaned back to look and look and _look_ at Marcus. “May I join the two of you for lunch?” he finally asked.

Thrown by that stare which meant Esca doubted him—doubted his sudden but honest shift from the misery of Liathan's rejection to the joyful contentment of the present—Marcus laughed and nodded. “Of course.”


	18. A Change in Contract to Appease the Change Back

“It is unbelievable,” Esca breathed as he held Alice on the one week anniversary of her birth, “For one so tiny, she has the power to rewrite everything. _Nothing_ is as it was before…”

“Yes, she certainly has captured your attention more than even your horses. I do not think I have seen this much of you since our honeymoon,” Marcus agreed. Esca was rarely out of the house these last seven days. If he did have to go, he did so grumbling, and he was always back quickly, irritated to have been gone at all and eager to stay close to his husband and child as if he might be pulled away again. “It pleases me that she is learning that normalcy will be to have a sater and a papa frequently near. I feared she would only know you as that figure that occasionally burst into rooms only to dash back out again.”

A twist of disapproval in Esca’s mouth jutted out his chin, “Well,” he said. “That shall _never_ be the case.”

“I am glad of it.”

If Marcus seemed a little distracted it was because he was at his desk, meticulously penning personal and official announcements of Alice Aquila Cunoval’s birth in as lovely script as he could manage--he had so far had to trash three of them, which was a shame because Esca had already provided a sketch of her on each card. There were more than enough for everyone in the county, but that would not be the case if Marcus kept ruining them. He said as much to his husband, who crossed the study to examine the work with the baby on his shoulder.

“Fear not. I should like an excuse to draw her a hundred times more.”

Marcus chuckled and said to the baby as he stood from the desk and stole her from the man’s arms, “Alice, your Papa is bordering on the ridiculous with his infatuation with you.”

“Nonsense,” Esca said, “I love her precisely as much as any Papa loves his princess.”

For that, Marcus flicked Esca’s ear, but his laughter lessened the integrity of the reprimand, “Do not _call_ her that!”

Esca smirked up at him and dropped him a glittering wink.

|||

The whole county, indeed it seemed everyone in England, returned with enthusiastic congratulations. Mother and Uncle wrote to say they were coming for a visit at once. Liathan wrote to say he was happy that the babe and Marcus were healthy, but he didn’t mention visiting to meet her. Instead, he announced that he and Lady of Geneva had wed. There was more to the letter, but Marcus did not read it. Esca scanned it quickly and pursed his lips, shook his head. “He just goes on, rambling about his hopes to have a son—what an insufferable—his own flesh and blood and he won’t consider--“ He crumpled up the letter in his fists and then saw Marcus’ expression. “I am sorry.”

“This is for the best,” Marcus said with a resolute nod. Beside him on the cushion of the sofa, Alice was awake and stretched out. She was starting to get the hang of wriggling and kicking. As they waited for their expected guests, Marcus had been examining how long she had already gotten head to toe in her first few weeks. “She might grow to be confused if he were a part of her life. This way, she has her Sater and she has her Papa, and she doesn’t ever have to know the ugly part of everything.”

“Precisely,” Esca said so promptly that Marcus suspected Esca had been thinking the same and praying on the matter. Batting the balled up letter into the fire, he leaned back in the chair and sighed. “I am glad that you are able to see the blessing in this mess… What do you think? We may live comfortably yet. Ours could be a happy home for a child,” he said, looking around the room, testing the essence.

“Yes, I have never doubted she would be comfortable and happy here. That is why I schemed to marry you,” Marcus whispered the last line though they were alone in the room, and then returned his voice to normal with a despondent sigh, “It is I alone who must fight the oncoming battle that will be remaining honorable in the lonely months ahead.”

“The Change Back is said to be… tumultuous,” Esca murmured. With a playful twinkle in his eye, he winked and said, “It might not be entirely disagreeable for you to employee your husband’s services at last…”

Marcus’ laugh was pure bravado, his nerves fraying dangerously at the idea that Esca wasn’t joking, “What scandal is this? To give myself up without love? To act in pure lust? Surely it is unbecoming of the Fortunate Lord of Brigantes, not to mention the sater of a young child.”

“Without love?” Esca repeated dubiously, that challenging, cocky, tilt to his head. Marcus’s humor died and words caught in his throat. The heat of the nearby fire seemed to crawl into his clothes. Esca’s eyes were boring into him, and Marcus scrambled to remember himself, to fight against the tide of his hormones. He wanted Esca fiercely. So much so that his fingers shook with it. But… but there was something--something he must never forget--what was--Ah, yes. He must never forget that a reliable attachment could never be forged by one suffering the metamorphous of Change, a man who is rarely the same person one moment to the next. “Marcus,” Esca said more firmly, seeming tired of waiting for a response, “Can you _swear_ that you have no feelings for me?”

“I could never swear on the constancy of anything I feel, Your Lordship,” Marcus whispered, “not until I am whole again,”

“That means you do feel something right now? At _this_ moment do you care for me?”

“Esca, please, let us not discuss this!” The sharpness of his tone cut through whatever energy of triumph that had started to lift Esca out of his seat. He slumped back down, looking wholly disappointed and even wounded by Marcus’ reply. He stared into the fire for a stretch of time, expression vacant, fingers gripping the fine furnishing.

When he spoke, he set his weight on an elbow, bothered his lower lip, “Do I make it difficult for you? I know I can at times be an honest recluse, even to my family. My brothers—“ he laughed at a memory, dropping his arm, “When I was in my teens, Cradac and Ewan would come back from being off with Father on business and they would find me in the stables or out in the fields and drag me back here, threatening to tie me to a chair until I had a civil conversation with mother so she would stop her worrying… I’ve lived up to her worst nightmare for me, I’m afraid.” He shook himself out of the past and refocused on Marcus. “I know I’m hard to live with. But this is working, is it not?”

“Your decision to allow your steward to do his job without you by his side--that is to say, without you by his side _so constantly_ (as you are still finding it necessary to aid him in some matters)--has greatly altered our lifestyle for the better, certainly.”

Esca leveled his most serious look on his husband. “You can’t possibly be wholly satisfied with our arrangement as it is presently. Not for the rest of our lives. You’ve said so yourself; you do not intend to be celibate, nor do I.”

Breath held, Marcus could not find the strength to look up from his daughter least his confused feelings be written too plainly on his features. To have his dear friend in that intimate way would be far too… wonderful. _Oh_ , to so cherished! His blood sang for it. He had no doubts that Esca could take him to new heights of pleasure. And there was more than fleshy matters that he yearned for. To wake each morning as he had on the first day of Alice’s life, when he held Esca so close in such comfort… and to never again fall asleep alone… and to be kissed with that fiery passion…. And to be protected--always--by Esca through everything and anything…

Marcus was trembling. He felt _so weak_ against the tide of desire coursing through his veins. If not for the child in his arms, he would have in this moment behaved with shockingly wicked abandonment.

Esca went to his knees in front of Marcus, hands on the arms of Marcus’ chair, caging him in. His eyes were quite fetching looking up at him, sparkling in the firelight, “Marcus…” he said softly, prompting the mother man’s cheeks to burn, “Marcus, will you let me make you mine?”

“Esca…” he breathed, embarrassed. His mind was such a scramble he could not form words or even thoughts. Esca’s hands gripped his knees.

“I will shower you in such love and devotion; you shan’t regret it.”

“But _you_ might,” Marcus replied and bravely met that fiery gaze, “I am still Changed. Not myself. What if when I… I would rather live the rest of my life without knowing another’s touch than wounding your heart.”

“You care for me so?” Esca’s eyebrows were up, the corners of his lips quirked, he moved a fraction closer, “My love, I had no idea.”

“Please don’t,” Marcus choked.

“Don’t what?”

“Call me your love.”

“Marcus—“

“It makes me uncomfortable,” he confessed and it was as much news to him as it was to Esca as he choked, “If you say what he said and it does not last as it did not for him--Oh, Esca, I survived losing him, but I _cannot_ survive losing you.” Tears shook lose as the words birthed raw out of his heart.

Breathless and teary-eyed, Esca surged closer and gripped the nape of his neck, foreheads together as he declared, “I will never abandon you!”

Esca’s lips were so close and it was _so_ hot in this room, that Marcus could not even recall the existence of human speech. All he knew was the blood coursing through him, rushing down with each heavy and yet quick thud of his painful heart.

A sound beyond the room alerted them both to a world outside of the pair of them and a moment later, the door opened, and the butler entered to announce the arrival of guests. As he did so, the man discreetly fought a smirk for having caught the Lord of Brigantes swiftly going to his feet from a kneeling position in front of his fortunate husband. Esca straighten his jacket with a clear of his throat and paced to the window and back, his breathing still uneven; not a word said to the butler.

The man stood waiting at attention, properly playing ignorant, as his Lords got ahold of themselves and then, with a nod from Esca, the butler allowed the guests into the room. Marcus was doubly glad to see the friends whom he had invited the moment it was proper, for he had been excited to introduce them to his child, but now they were the perfect escape from the frightening depth of emotion that he had been about to tip into beneath Esca’s reverent touch.

Just knowing such a level of passion even _existed_ in the world at all was cause for alarm. (What he had felt for Liathan did not compare). But to think that he owned a piece of it, a piece which somehow tied his heart to Esca’s compact little body, was astounding. Had this connection always been there? It certainly felt as if it had, so solidly a piece of him it might as well have been a limb. Somehow Marcus had never noticed it until this moment. And what about before he even met Esca? Could it have been there even then?

Esca shot him a look, smirking, eyes still glimmering as, all at once Marcus’ friends were in the room. The separate world he had created with them engulfed the fortunate lord and excitement gripped him. He scooped Alice onto his shoulder and stood to greet them as they filed into the room eagerly. Sherly was first and bumped his jaw against Marcus’ even as he cried, “Marcus, oh you wouldn’t believe it!”

“It is something straight from a novel!” Cillian cried with a rustle of skirts as the boy rushed into the room in a whirl of enthusiasm.

Having been expecting praise for the beautiful child in his arms, Marcus was thrown and stuttered, “W-what?”

Will had entered last and spoke next, face ashen, “My poor James!”

Alarm flashed through Marcus’ veins, and his first thought was that the ship had sunk. “Good God! What has happened? He did not come home?”

“He arrived home last night,” Will clarified his face hard with horror as he said, “beaten to a pulp.”

“No!” Marcus cried. “Who would do such a thing? And why? Was it gypsies? Was he robbed?” Marcus traded a fearful look with Esca, who seemed to be thinking the same thing. Was it a zealot disapproving of the couple’s new lifestyle? Damn the rumor mill that peddled the most intimate of details to every ear in the county!

“He would do well to _say_ it was gypsies,” Sherlock grimaced. “After all, the matter of debt is so unbecoming.”

“Debt?” Marcus cried as Esca’s fingers went to his chin to pull pensively at his whiskers. “Surely that can’t be it. Debtors go to prison, they aren’t _beaten_!”

“Well, shows what you know, Marcus, anyone can tell you that there is one man who will not send his debtors to prison, for he _expects_ to be paid. Or _else_. This man means business. He will _not_ be trifled with, they say.” Sherlock said superiorly. “Only the very brave of the very foolish ever place their wagers with him.”

Comprehension made Marcus’ jaw drop open. “You speak of _gambling_ debts?”

“Norrington lost nearly ever’ting at t’ races,” Cillian said, blue eyes wide with the thrill of such a story book occurrence, “When it came time to collect--“

Will seemed to exercise extreme control not to throttle the blue-eyed beauty, but cut across the youth none the less. “I will not pretend that my husband is a saint, or that he has been at all content these last two years--a man as miserable as both of us have been--it could have happened to any one of us where we not able to lean on one another. But I will clarify that he did not lose _all_ of our money.”

Marcus moved forward to embrace his dear friend with one arm, for he knew too well the comforting illusion that gambles and drink provided to one seeking distraction from desperation. Will patted Marcus’ back in a silent thank you, and Marcus stepped back with a worried sigh. “Is James all right?”

“He had some bones broken.” Will said. “Ribs and a nose, specifically.”

“Well, let us thank God for that,” Esca said tightly. “It could have been far worse.”

Heartfelt agreement rumbled through the pack. Marcus simply could not wrap his mind around it. “This man your husband dealt with, it could not be the same operation I met with in London--twas years ago, a number of men in my regiment became entangled--but ribs and noses were not their warning call. They preferred to cut a line under the chin, leaving a scar. I am unfamiliar with who this must be and that unnerves me. What man is behind this?”

“No one _knows_ his name, Marcus.” Sherlock said with that superior amusement again. “He is only The Hound. If you want make a deal with him, you meet him out on the moors.”

The Lords Cunoval traded another look. Esca’s expression mirrored Marcus’ feelings precisely. With a quirk in his lips, Marcus said, “That sounds very dramatic. Are you sure this isn’t something Mrs. Swann read out of a book and got her pretty little head all confused about?”

Esca chortled and paced away to regain some composure as Will said darkly, “He exists. I’ve heard the name straight from my husband’s lips.”

“Well, then, there you go.” Sherlock said. “Some brute of a man goes about baying at the moon and breaking bones when money cannot be collected.”

“This dog fellow,” Esca mused allowed, “How is it he is not detained by the proper authorities if he is going about in such a manner?”

“ _He’s_ not doing it,” Will clarified. “The way James speaks of it, I gather that The Hound is the runner of the operation, a gentleman of sorts who does not get his hands dirty.”

“Some gentleman indeed,” Marcus spat.

“I hear he has men to do the ugly deeds and these men serve time for it. The Hound pays them, they say, double, if they are caught. Of course, they are hardly ever got.” Cillian seemed half in love with this fiend, speaking quickly and breathlessly.

“And whoever did my husband is still afoot, that’s for sure.” Will added in an angry grumble.

“I can scarcely believe that Norrington would get involved with such serious men as this--Esca, my love, couldn’t we do something?” Marcus implored. The endearment had slipped out quite naturally, but Esca had not missed it. The nobleman visibly startled, and then a radiant smile threatened to overtake his expression, but he scowled fiercely to beat it as he agreed, “Guern can be dispatched immediately to see to the injured.”

“There is no need. Watson has bandaged him up already.”

“There, of course he has, my dear. Do not fret so.”

“I mean,” Marcus intoned, dragging Esca around so that their backs were to the company. “To help on the money front of things. If Norrington cannot pay, then those men will come again and do worse damage. I have seen it before.” He touched his chin where a scar had nearly faded out of existence. Marcus often forgot about it, but it served as a reminder at how blindly he had done whatever Liathan asked, even gambling against his judgment, back before either of them even had control of their own money so that paying the debt in time without alerting their parents had become tricky and thus they had been threatened.

Esca’s voice cracked and died in his throat. “I do not think it at all appropriate to--“

“To save a friend? I am sure it is not too much--Will, pray, what is owed?”

“Oh,” Will’s eyes widened and he at once shook his head. “That is too kind, my lords, truly, but my husband and I can amend this. It is not out of means. We have considerable wealth in artwork and clocks alone. James hesitated to sell some pieces and thus draw my attention to his shame. But now that I am aware of it, and the matter shall be cleared up at once. We shall sell some pieces and be whole again. ”

“There, you see?” Esca said rather loudly. “You have offended them, Marcus. Of course it is not out of your means. Let us pretend the insinuation to the contrary was never made.”

Alice began to fuss on Marcus’ shoulder and everyone jumped guiltily, then laughed at their foolishness to have completely overlooked the precious baby.

“Oh, Marcus!” Sherlock said happily, giving him a one armed hug and tickling the baby’s back. “She is a beauty!”

“Congratulations, Lord Cunoval,” Will said, shaking his hand. Esca smiled and stuck out his chest, adopting the act of a proud father. Though, as the only father she was to ever know, it was not an act at all.

They visited for tea, and talked about all the usual things an experienced mother man like Sherlock could tell a new mother like Marcus—and not about the unpleasantness of The Hound, though it remained forefront in everyone’s mind.

Esca was sitting with Marcus on the sofa, close enough that he was resting a hand lovingly on Marcus’ knee. It was no different than the other times Esca had done so to complete their picture of bliss, but Marcus could no longer ignore it. He felt it there, heavy and warm and comforting, his wedding ring glinting in the light, as they laughed and talked with friends.

After a week of life, Alice was no longer small and pinched, or red and fuzzy, and everyone insisted that she would have the best complexion in the village, but what they really could not believe was how surprisingly long she was for a newborn. She would be tall, clearly taking after Marcus.

“She has your eyes, I think,” Cillian said when he got to hold her.

Whether or not the baby looked more like Marcus or Esca was the main subject (and a proper cause of panic for her parents) before it became clear that Alice took so stunningly after Marcus, with her eyes and coloring--and even her nose, Will said, though Marcus hoped that it was not true--that anything else that was left was easily believed to have come from Esca.

Once the topic was covered thoroughly with his friends, Marcus could relax on the matter. If they did not see it, no one would. Esca’s hand on his leg gave a triumphant squeeze, and they shared a secret look. Esca winked. Marcus scratched his nose to hide the grin he could not fight.

Even Will softened his recently hardened edges, and held the newest addition to the county for a while, and admitted children were not so bad when Sherlock made a passing comment about his new life decision which prevented such miracles. Then, regrettably, Will fell silent and forlorn. The sea captain’s trouble with the gangs of Brigantes threatened to resurface as a topic, but Sherlock dutifully deflected it.

“Marcus, I hear it was a very easy delivery, you lucky bastard,” he said crassly, causing everyone to laugh.

“It was over before I knew it,” Marcus said. As more and more days grew between him and the event, he remembered less of the pain and more of that amazing moment when he had found the strength to finish it, with Esca all around him, and his heart purged clean.

He already wanted to do it again, but he kept this desire secret. To be fair on Alice, and his own body, he would give it a few years. In the meantime, he felt somehow baptized, washed clean, and made new. Nothing of the past haunted him, so when he found the nobleman watching him with a soft expression, he felt only joy.

“You sound like me mam,” Cillian was saying in reference to Marcus’ ease in labor. “Pushes them out and then cleans the house that night.”

Esca whistled low. Cillian laughed down at Alice with his tongue between his teeth, expertly ignoring Sherlock and Will’s displeased looks at such an improper remark. But the nobleman was chuckling, so Marcus saw no harm done, but Cillian returned to etiquette after that.

Once everyone who cared to had held Alice for a minute, Esca got a turn and would not surrender her. Marcus wanted her, but he got to monopolize her most of the day when nursing, so it was only fair to let Esca hold her when he was free to do so.

There in the sitting room, with the evening sun cascading through the windows, Marcus fell out of conversation to watch Esca holding the baby, smiling, and hardly looking up from her sleeping face. Marcus began to tremble.

||||

“She was a hit today,” Marcus said happily, handing the child over to the nursemaid. “Not many newborns can compete with sensational gossip like that, wouldn’t you agree?”

“Hm,” Esca grunted as the servant carried Alice out of the room. In the silence following the garbling baby’s absence, Esca began pulling on his whiskers again. Then his mouth bowed in a little frown, “I had no idea you had brushed against the thugs of London, Marcus. What a dark history.”

Marcus blushed slightly. “It was so long ago. I was barely twenty. My father, who at the time had been fully estranged from me, intervened and saved my skin. It was quite memorable…” He touched the scar again and then turned away from the memory, sensing that it was not the past that the nobleman wished to speak of. Indeed, Marcus hardly cared to discuss anything less recent than the conversation they had been having before the visitors had arrived.

Could Esca mean it? If Marcus gave himself to this man, would he keep Marcus for better or worse? Marcus dared to believe so, dared to imagine that those penetrating grey eyes could see more deeply than his shifting exterior and his shallow, turbid emotions, straight to the dead-calm center of him. And what Esca saw made the man glow from the inside out, kneel before him, and whisper of love and devotion.

“Esca?” Marcus whispered past the weight on his chest. The heat of the fire once again pressed in, and Marcus felt as if he were drowning already in what was promised to him. His heart beat quickly, jumping as if to shout with its own lips _yes, yes, yes_! He circled Esca where the nobleman stood still in that pensive manner, looking largely tired from such a crowded, intimate gathering of which he had little practice. Esca’s face followed Marcus’ movement as if he was a sunflower to the sun. It made Marcus’ skin tingle.

“You’ve a question for me, love?”

Marcus stopped and slid in quite close to whisper in Esca’s ear. “Do you want me?”

He felt Esca’s body tense and shiver. There was a hesitation before the word broke out of Esca’s throat, low and gravely. “Now?”

The mother man laid his burning hands on Esca’s neck, fingertips brushing the cool skin above his cravat, tickling the lobes of his large ears, and he let the word fling out of his chest ahead of the heartbeat that lodged in his throat. “--Yes”

"Marcus. I want this more than anything, but I--" he choked and swallowed. Marcus surged in and kissed him, feeling giggly when Esca’s hands grabbed him by the hips and dragged him closer. Breath from their noses warmed one another’s cheeks, coming all the more faster as their heartbeats ran away from them. Marcus opened his mouth to allow Esca’s tongue to flick his, but the kiss ended instead. Esca was shaking. Marcus bit his lip to hold back a teasing giggle. "Are you nervous, dear?"   Esca was breathless, his cheeks a splotchy red, his eyes burning holes into Marcus' skin. His fingers trembled where he held Marcus, "Only that I might fail you. You might regret me after all.”

"I doubt you could, and I am sure I will not,” the mother man confessed from the stillest part within himself. “I have not felt this before--even for him."   With a gasp, Esca held him tighter, kissed him so fiercely that he took Marcus’ breath, his balance, and a heartbeat. They swayed and Marcus hiccupped, head spinning as Esca breathed hotly, "Marcus, if only you could know what that means to me...Come," he dragged Marcus out of the room, and the pair thundered up the staircase for a bedroom. Behind closed doors, they crashed together again, hands roaming quite freely this time.

“What does it mean to you, Esca?” Marcus asked lowly. “Hm? When I tell you I have never felt this way for anyone.”

“If that is true—“

“It is.”

“Oh, my darling love—I—“

"Are you alright?” Marcus asked between heavy breathes. There were no tears yet, but the nobleman’s voice sound wet and not at all strong. It was as if this passion were breaking him in half, not fortifying him as it was doing for Marcus. Afraid for him, Marcus fought for some control of the moment, slowed it down. He combed his fingers through his bronze hair. “You seem.... distraught."   Wild, uneven breaths pumped Esca’s small frame and he shook his disheveled head. "You are every dream I ever had incarnate. My every prayer delivered... I scarcely deserve that kind of blessing."   Overly flattered to the point of bashfulness, Marcus pulled the cravat away and bent to nibble at Esca's neck, and Esca scrubbed his fingers through Marcus' hair, sending shivers down his spine. Systematically, Marcus removed clothing and moved down Esca's collarbones, his chest, to mouth at his nipples. At the first lick, the nobleman hissed and then his will broke.

"Christ, Marcus, forgive me, but I cannot stop now." He surged against Marcus, assuming command. Laughing, the ex-soldier relinquished control and let himself be pinned to the bed. Blood spiking, he wrapped his legs securely around Esca. "I am not asking you to stop."   Esca's laugh was half hysterical, his smile ravenous in a predatory way as he made quick work of Marcus’ trousers. There was a brief pause while Esca’s trousers were removed and the oil was applied. And then Marcus was had; taken by a man who knew every layer and shade of him and yet _still_ loved him. Esca moved in his body with feverish passion, looking as often as not directly into Marcus’ eyes, straight down to his soul where only God’s eyes had roved before. And Marcus looked back. He could see through the veil of stormy grey color into the darkness where Esca’s very spirit flickered. It moved the mother man so deeply that tears ran freely down his face and he could not feel his fingers or his toes.

It was fire that ripped through Marcus’ body as the pleasure peaked and he let out a howl of ecstasy, throat bared, chest heaving. Esca’s hips stuttered against him and the nobleman let slip a ripe word as he broke inside of Marcus’ tight opening, bleeding hot torrents that filled him up. They lay together frozen in their intimate embrace, unwilling to admit that it was over. At length, Esca rasped, “I love you.”

Marcus closed his eyes, for all of God’s beautiful creation seemed aligned and perfect and he dared not breathe for fear of disturbing it, let alone uttering speech of any kind. He allowed one moan of happiness and ceased risking the balance. Esca nuzzled his breasts, grinning. “You will not say it?”

The precipice of chaos yawned wide as the topic was broached. Marcus sighed, “You know fine well why I will not. Not yet.”

A chuckle vibrated Esca’s ribs. “You are terribly sweet to be so cautious on my account,” he teased, nearly managing to hide his wounded pride. It would have only been proper for one in Marcus’ position to return the sentiment tenfold. Why had he not? The heart within Marcus’ milk swollen chest began to race and his breathing quickened, growing shallow with each pant. He rolled closer and held onto the smaller man as one might a life raft in the ocean of a stormy future. Esca clutched back in some alarm, “Marcus? What is wrong?”

“I--I have suddenly—I do not know, it—it is as if I—I have become so frightened, Esca.”

“Frightened?” he repeated, planting kisses on his crown that were meant to be reassuring. “Of what, my love?”

Gasping, Marcus swallowed and focused on breathing until the height of the panic had receded, but he could not erase the twinge of fear that had triggered it. Esca held him in silence, stroking his hair, waiting for an explanation but needing none with one amid The Change. Still, a soft inquisition for the details was not out of place in such an intimate setting. Marcus searched for the words to make clear his tangled emotions. “I suppose I was reminded of the past…” he mused allowed as he analyzed the fear, “There was a time when I could never have imagined my happiness ending, and yet it did… What if it happens again? What if _even this_ can be spoiled?”

The nobleman scoffed ineloquently and then scoffed some more, mumbling about nonsense. Marcus rose to an elbow over him. “I am quite serious. The future holds such uncertainties. We can never be sure what awaits us, what might tear us apart.” Yes, that was definitely a part of it… but not all of it… Try as he might, however, Marcus could make no shape of the rest of it.

Esca looked hard at him, not moving, not even breathing. Then his chin moved forward and his lips parted for speech. Marcus hastily put his fingers there to stop what was definitely going to be a reminder of wedding vows. In the silence, the memory of the oath Esca had made to never abandon him rang loudly between them, promising to burst forth from the nobleman the moment Marcus released his lips.

“Please,” he begged softly. He sank onto Esca, finding that the man’s hard body was impossibly comfortable to rest upon. “I have never felt so content. This happiness matches the day Alice was born for it completes me in an unexpected way. I will not make heavy proclamations that might one day be false and ruin the memory. Let us keep it just the way it is: Pure joy--and simplicity of the moment--with no promises to the future. Can you do this for me?”

Esca’s hard look slowly softened into one of indulgence. “If it is so important to you then… Yes.” The man was suddenly a missile of energy, and rolled so that he was triumphantly on top once more, declaring, “I shall make it an island of refuge for us forevermore. Tonight there is no future! There is no past! Let us pretend there is no England beyond the windows of this room! The world has decidedly ended; the pair of us and this bed spared by the grace of God.”

“How tragic. But I feel fortunate to have survived with such a pleasing lover. Praise Jesus.” They laughed, entangling their limbs for Marcus’ flesh had swollen quickly for a second round and Esca was not far behind. A changing fortunate and an eager new student of carnal acts made a fine match in bed as each saw to the other’s intense needs. Esca proved most adept at exploring, discovering and remembering the things that most excited Marcus, while Marcus strived to do the same.

When next they came, no words were spoken. Esca conveyed his heart with warm, lingering kisses and Marcus attempted to disappear into each one until, heavy eyed, Esca settled against Marcus’ plump chest, and slept. Marcus slept too, briefly, but the close and sticky heat of the blankets woke him a short hour later, and in need of air, he gently extracted himself from his husband and moved to the window.

Here it was quite cold with the chilly night pressing through the glass. The stars burned confidently in the sky, and the willow swayed in a forceful breeze. Somewhere in the distance, a dog bayed. Marcus knelt with his elbows on the ledge, and as had been his habit since childhood in a time of confusion, fear, or sadness, he prayed.

 _What was the point, Heavenly Father? I love my daughter, do not mistake me, but I believe she would have been no different had she been born nine months from this night instead. Why did you put me together with the prince when I was so clearly made for Esca? How could you have let me be so blind…so stupid…_ A shooting star streaked across the world and Marcus touched the cold glass where he had seen it. _My wish is for the past to be rewritten so that I may have known Esca sooner and belonged only to him…_

“Marcus—love, what are you doing?” Esca’s voice sounded from the bed. The furniture protested verbally to his shifting about so carelessly, untangling himself from the sheets and sitting up. Marcus returned to the warm bed before Esca could leave it. “I was just thinking…”

“You do not look as happy as last I saw you.”

Marcus instantly forced a large smile onto his face, but the thing was hollow and crumbled. He sighed dejectedly. “I would be happier if I had not made a mess of my life. If I could have deserved you on our wedding night.”

“Oh,” he breathed softly. The despondent mother man allowed himself to be pulled into a tight embrace. “Never mind that, my love. Never mind it. All is sorted now. It is past and none of it shall touch us here. Did we not agree?”

“Yes,” Marcus nearly smiled. “We did. And I’m sorry, my dear, truly. I do not know what has come over me.”

“Your moods do not need reasons when it is the same month in which you gave birth to a child. That is the only explanation needed.”

“I do not mean to spoil the evening with my wretchedness.”

“Ssh. Close your eyes and rest here with me, and you shall feel better soon.”

They lay still and silent for some time, neither falling victim to sleep. When Marcus shifted against him, Esca asked, “Oh, do you need…”

He did. Without rhyme or reason, Marcus’ cock had thickened and now itched quite dreadfully. He rutted against Esca’s hip to relieve it, pleased to have a physical escape from the emotional doldrums he had landed in. Wriggling, Marcus pulled Esca between his knees so that the man pressed against him intimately once again. His cock stirred against his stomach, hard and leaking already. Esca took him in hand and worked him slowly as he rutted against Marcus to harden himself.

“Harder. Faster,” Marcus pleaded softly, writhing in pleasure as Esca obeyed and tightened his hold as he flicked his wrist more quickly. It was sharp, and Marcus had time only to scramble for a proper hold of Esca’s shoulders before he broke beneath a wave of heat that made sweat break out on his brow. His essence covered Esca’s hand in silence, and then he gulped for air. It was insufferably _hot_ in this room.

A moan fell past his lips as Esca cleaned him, a sound of absolute misery. The nobleman’s brow creased as he brushed the backs of his fingers on Marcus’ cheek. “Are you well?”

“No,” Marcus whined, fanning the sheets and kicking them away. He thought he had better move to the basin in the corner but the action would surely upset his stomach. He covered his face with the crook of his arm and gulped. “I feel as if I am going to be sick.”

“You have gotten too excited. Let me open a window and let in some fresh air.”

The window casement creaked and Esca jiggled it open, and then he returned to bed, allowing Marcus space to cool above the sheets. The bite of chilly air swept up Marcus’ body and reversed the worst of his nausea. After only minutes, Marcus felt right again. He twitched the sheets back over himself to brace against the cold. Esca got out of bed and shut the window soundly against the cold night. “There. All better.”

“Yes. Only now I am terribly cold.”

“Oh, something tells me that you will be hot again soon enough.” Esca teased, moving his leg fractionally closer to Marcus so that he may feel the warmth. Marcus greedily wrapped his legs around the comfortable offering, tangling his frozen feet with Esca’s warmed ones. Esca flinched from the cold but laughed and tucked them both in.

They slept the rest of the night, but early the following morning Marcus woke up with start. He was wrapped around Esca securely once again, but realized he did not have to let go anymore. Contentment, pure and simple, settled on Marcus’ nerves which these last nine months had been terribly worn thin and frayed. O, the sheer _relief_ of it. His place in the world was here: Esca’s husband and Alice’s sater, the lover of a good man and the fortunate father of a sweet girl.

As if his whole life had been driven towards something, one _single_ thing which had been lost to him, that thing was now in his hands. With it was born an inexplicable sense of freedom from invisible chains.

The breath Marcus drew into his lungs, long and deep, felt like the first breath of a new life. His happiness in this moment was at such intensity that it matched only the first moment he heard Alice’s cry--but, perhaps, also it could match that strange episode of fear he had experienced the night before, after he joined bodies with Esca for the very first time and had been asked to explain why he would not exchange vows of love.

With distance between himself and the mood swing, the whole thing existed in his past merely as a surreal fact more than anything else. He had given himself, fully in heart and body, to Esca and then he had been so panicked that he’d struggled to even breathe.

 _Curious_ , Marcus frowned now. _Why should it have been so_? He did not like that bit of ugly which marred an otherwise beautifully momentous occasion in his life. How could making love to the right man produce such fear? Could that be normal?

O, what did it matter? Because wasn’t Esca sweet as he helped him through it, holding him as he had.

Acting as a perfect eraser of all doubt and questions, the sweet memories of last night, of having Esca no less than three times in a row with nothing but tender words and playful jokes said in between, made Marcus’ already warm, heavy lap intensify until he had such an arousal that the sheet was obscenely tented. Putting aside all other thought, he coaxed Esca awake with teasing strokes to his sleeping cock until it woke and Esca soon after that. “Oi,” Esca grumbled, blinking, “who said you could touch that?”

His voice lifted something inside of Marcus, and he could not help giggling as he whispered, “I am in need, darling.”

“Oh? Then, let us proceed, shall we?” Esca smirked, stretching a little into the warm pillows, lips twitching in an unrestrained, impish grin. Marcus resumed stroking his husband, only for Esca to tsk and surge forward. Marcus resisted being thrown onto his back again, and they began to grapple. Esca had said it once before that he enjoyed a man’s strength, and so Marcus made sure to display it, thrilling secretly when those wiry muscles bested his domestically softened body. Pinned roughly to the mattress, Marcus learned what it was to surrender the fight and still win.

The body rush that came over him made his eyes roll into the back of his head, a strangled moan fill the room and invigorated Esca, whose body twitched inside of him as he began to move more vigorously. Marcus was beginning to think they had never lasted quite this long before when the door suddenly _opened_ without even a knock upon it and a man entered.

Esca's head snapped up and Marcus cried out in alarm, covering himself as best he could beneath Esca, who swore and shielded them both.

“Eames?” Esca cried, “For Christ’s sake—“

“GET OUT!” Marcus screeched, so mortified that he became a banshee. He screamed senselessly and Esca helped to frantically cover him with pillows and sheets alike as the intruder panted,

"Forgive me, Lord Esca, but come quickly--It's Guern! He's in trouble!”

“Trouble?” Esca repeated, separating his body from Marcus’ in one swift move.

“Guern?” Marcus gasped, alarmed, “What has happened?”

“It's Mr. Placidus, sir.” Eames said, not looking at the bed, “He and his friends planned an ambush on us this morning."

As Marcus frowned at this mysterious answer, Esca swore as he got out of the sheets and back into his trousers. "Is the constable alerted?"   Marcus made sure to keep the sheet covering himself as he moved to the edge of the mattress, demanding, "An ambush--what madness-who should want to ambush my doctor?" But his questions went ignored. Esca asked Eames instead,

"What of Thor and Lestrade? Are they on the scene?"   "Yes, sir, they were all in a brawl when I made off straight here."  

 _"Fuck."_   

"Esca?" Marcus asked stopping his husband--dressed now in his trousers and boots—before he marched out of the room entirely. Esca looked over wildly and Marcus saw a wash of contradicting emotion flit across his face before it hardened and he ordered, “Stay here.”

It was too perplexing to argue immediately, but as soon as the stranger called Eames and his husband had left Marcus alone in the room, the mother man scrambled into his own clothes, mind a reeling mess from having been ripped from the edge of bliss. It was hard to focus and harder to stand up right, but soldier instincts quickly unfolded. There was trouble afoot. Guern was a respected friend—and very dear to beloved friend—and so there was zero choice in the matter. Like hell was he going to stay here like a good obedient husband when he could help with-- _whatever_ was happening.

Marcus skipped accessories like the cravat and his breast band, but otherwise fully clothed himself and chased after Esca. He caught the men downstairs, where Esca was getting into his riding coat without having donned a shirt. “Is Guern not in the house? At this hour? What in the world could have gotten him from bed so early?”

Esca’s face hardened at the sight of Marcus on the stairs, and he held up a hand. “Marcus, no. Please. Stay here.”

“I could never! What on earth is happening?”

The nobleman relented looking pained, and shook his head. “This is not the time to explain. I--What a goddamn _mess_.”

“I’m so sorry, sir,” Eames said at once, and Esca glowered at the man as the three of them stormed from the house. Peter was already pulling the carriage around. When the young man saw Marcus, his eyes widened, “S’am! Er--There is an urgent situation with one of the horses--”

“Thank you, Peter, we’ll leave off the lies to my husband today,” Esca said shortly, throwing open the carriage door. Peter promptly closed his mouth and looked guiltily away from Marcus. Eames jumped into the carriage. Esca turned to look at Marcus with an unreadable expression. “Get in, then. Guern is in danger and we must save him.”

_What in the world was happening?_

Marcus forced one foot in front of the other and accepted Esca’s hand up into the box. Before releasing him, however, Esca squeezed his fingers in a death grip, opened his mouth as if to speak, and then changed his mind. Nostrils flaring, he slammed the door, and jumped onto the back, shouting for Peter to make haste. The carriage jolted into motion.

“What is happening to my doctor?” Marcus demanded of the man who sat across from him, “Who would wish him ill?”

“Placidus and his lackies,” Eames answered at once, and something about the way he lifted his chin enabled Marcus to place him finally. This man had danced with Cillian at his first debut ball, and had been described by Sherlock as the son of a bankrupt merchant. Marcus had had no idea he knew Esca personally.

“ _Who_ is Placidus? And what business does he have with a doctor of fortunate midwifery?”

Eames lowered his chin, brushed at the leg of his trousers as if there was dust. “Placidus is probably The Hound’s greatest enemy, top three definitely.”

“ _The Hound_?” Nine months in this village without a word on the matter and then suddenly the man was everywhere. “The one who ordered Norrington’s ribs and nose to be broken? Has Guern mixed himself up in that mess?”

“It is the very same man, Fortunate Lord,” Eames answered, eyes darting anywhere but at Marcus. He leaned to see the scenery racing past, and then thumbed his nose. “And no, Guern is not in debt to the Hound. But he _is_ more than a midwife these days. He helps us do the Hound’s bidding. He was meant to collect from Placidus today but Placidus had plans to teach a lesson rather than pay. Not to worry. The Hound never lets anyone get away with this sort of thing.”

“The Hound, the Hound!” Marcus snapped, “Why will you not say his name?-- you must know it!”

The indignant question was met instantly with a sheepish expression that made Marcus swallow his tongue.

An awful idea took form in his mind and he choked. “W-who is The Hound?”

“The Old Man. Your father-in-law.”


	19. The Details of Marcus’ Second, Larger, Mistake

“You are saying that the terrible, ruthless, Hound who orders men to be beaten is the same frail body confined to a death bed in my house?”

“He’s not the man he once was,” Mr. Eames conceded. “But he doesn’t need to be with a son like he’s got, does he?”

Just then, Peter reigned the carriage to a stop outside of a stately house and once again Marcus was able to place a person of interest. _Placidus_. As in the Mr. William Placidus of Northglen Park; _second_ richest family in the county. Eames’ cryptic, insane words revealing the Old Man's reputation still had Marcus speechless when Esca ripped open the carriage door once again. He allowed Eames to dart out past him like a bird from its cage, and then he guiltily met Marcus’ eye, silently offered a hand to help him down.

Marcus did not move immediately. He stared back at Esca and accused evenly, “Son of The Hound.”

“You were never supposed to find out.” He said, face a tight mask of pain, hand still held aloft for Marcus’s, “ _This isn’t the real me_ , Marcus, I swear. But what else am I to do when my father is too weak to handle his own business?”

Tears sprang to Marcus’ eyes as the past became clearer. No wonder Esca was so much out of the house. No wonder he had resisted Marcus learning the business. No wonder the house of Cunoval had been in debt in the first place. Setting aside his anger at learning how his money had been put to use, Marcus growled, “What have you gotten Guern into, Cunoval?”

“He volunteered his services of his own free will. He knew the risks.”

Of course Guern had never started sleeping late, only rising earlier to see to this—this monstrous secret life. And did Cillian know? Well, the boy would know now for it had come back on the doctor, as all evil did to all evil-doers. Marcus swallowed bile, met that grey gaze that was absolutely no different from the one he had spent the night falling into.

How could this be happening? What was he supposed to tell his mother? His friends? The thought of Will—and now Cillian, too—both of them hurt by these men and their games of power--made Marcus clench his teeth. Heart beating quickly as if he were face to face with a great foe, Marcus rasped, “If Guern is dead I will kill you.”

“Then let us hope for my mine and Kitty’s sake that he lives.”

Marcus stepped down from the carriage, wishing as he did so that he had worn a breast band after all, for he did not like the way his chest bounced so freely. He hunched his shoulders and pulled his coat closed as he matched Esca’s stride into the house. One of Esca’s trusted men whom Marcus had only ever seen from a distance, (a tall man, striking with dark brown skin, a shiny bald head and an eye patch) met them in the entrance way, tilting his head at Marcus and shooting Esca a curious look with his one good eye.

Esca looked back glumly and the man said only in clear, English-accented diction, “We have Placidus in the parlor. But we are not alone in the house. Clint is detaining a woman and a fruitful boy upstairs.”

“And Guern?”

A beat and the man answered measuredly, “He’ll live.”

Marcus puffed with relief to hear it, but could not believe it until he saw it with his own two eyes. He attempted to look beyond the tall black man, but could not see into the parlor at this angle. The man blocking the way addressed him next, as if they were acquainted, “Marcus, I suggest you return to the carriage and wait for us there.”

“No,” Marcus said outright. “I do not know who you are but I have seen you before. My husband once explained you away as his horse trainer. Well, I doubt that profession now. But nevertheless, I am certain that as the Fortunate Lord of Brigantes I am above you in station and _I_ say I will _not_ leave my husband’s side.”

The man’s one good eye narrowed, but he only inclined his head and said, “That may be so, but your husband’s orders will continue to stand over yours, and I am not to let you see any part of this business.”

Esca pushed beyond him, “What does it matter shielding him from it any longer? Let him on through,” and with that Esca strode down the hall towards the parlor. Marcus followed hastily, afraid that if enough space opened between himself and Esca someone else would slide between them and separate them. Mr. Eames and the nameless, one-eyed bald man followed close behind Marcus, black coat swooshing around his heavy boots.

“Lord and Fortunate Cunoval? Mr. Fury?” a startled voice from the staircase made the whole group whirl and perceive a finely dressed, small frame descending with exceptional grace, his familiar face as riddled with questions as Marcus felt.

Fortunate JG Levitt looked from Marcus to Esca and twice at Mr. Eames before asking, “ _What_ is going on?”

Esca held up a hand at the youth, stopping Levitt right in his tracks. “Sis Levitt, I have business with your brother-in-law.” To the man, Mr. Fury, he snapped, “I thought you said Clint was up there?”

“I am here, sir,” a man, evidently Clint (broadly muscled) came hurrying down the stairs, grabbing the Fortunate by the arm as he explained, “Natasha, er, distracted me.”

“ _Mrs. Placidus_ to you,” JG spat with venom jerking his arm from Clint’s hold. “She’s a married woman; you should be ashamed to behave like that to her, and I _will not_ go back up until _someone_ tells me what is going on!”

“It is a matter unfit for you or your sister,” Mr. Fury said up at him calmly and then a broken cry of pain sounded from behind the closed door of the parlor.

Esca, now ignoring Levitt entirely, barked up at the man on the stairs, “Clint, I’ll deal with you later. For now, make yourself useful in the parlor. Eames, take the lovely back up stairs and _don’t_ let the wife’s charms distract you from keeping them _both_ up there.”

Mr. Eames had stopped in his tracks at the sight of the lovely gentleman on the stairs but at Esca’s command he jumped as if pricked by a tack--“Oh. Er—right!”—and hurried up the stairs to grab Levitt by the elbow that Clint released. Clint then went over the banister to land firmly on two feet and disappear into the parlor and, with a jerk of his head, Esca sent Mr. Fury to guard the door that lead to the downstairs servant’s quarters. Marcus could only marvel at these strangers who obeyed Esca’s every command without question or hesitation.

“How dare you—??” Levitt was crying, punching Mr. Eames in the chest to little effect. Mr. Eames, meanwhile, was dragging the boy back up the stairs saying, “Sorry, it’s just orders. Come on.”

“Let go of me!” Levitt cried. The man smirked, “No.”

Their arguing drifted up two more flights of stairs and then a door slammed.

Esca had already marched into the parlor, not lingering to see that his orders were obeyed as only a man who knows his own power can do. Marcus, paralyzed by the dark authority that Esca had assumed here, shook it off and hastened to follow.

|||

Within the sun filled parlor, they found Guern sitting with a pistol on his knee, a bloody kerchief at his nose, a cloth tied around his forearm dark with fresh blood. He sat still, his blackened icy eyes staring at the man crouched in the center of the room.

Placidus was near Marcus in age, waspy and frail, with a whittling voice. His face was currently swollen and bleeding slightly at the lip as he sat in submission and under the hands of two men. One was the obedient but weak-in-the-face-of-Mrs. Palcidus’-charms Clint, the other was a massive man who dwarfed Clint’s (and even Marcus’) muscles. This man was blond, bearded, and grinning like it was all fun and games.

“Thank you, Thor,” Esca said to the thug. “You have saved more than one life by saving the doctor’s. Guern, need I call Watson?”

“Lestrade has gone for him,” Guern said darkly, the hand holding the cloth to his nose had drained to such a pale shade and trembled as if to imply a serious vein had been laid open beneath the bandages on the forearm. Esca nodded and then leveled a dead-eyed looked at Placidus. “You ordered an attack on my men.”

“Your men were coming to attack me first. It was defense.”

“It was cowardly,” Esca scathed. Marcus’ skin lifted in chill bumps at the deadly tone from one he knew to be capable of such sweetness as the night before. His head began to spin, and he closed his eyes as Esca continued to speak in that low, threatening way, “And now you have only made matters worse for yourself. You know how I _loathe_ handling these matters on any day, William, but what a poor morning you have chosen to pull me from my bed. As you can see,” he gestured from his own bare chest to Marcus’ loose shirt, “we were _quite_ in the middle of something. Indeed, it was probably the most satisfying fuck of my life _unfinished_ , for now I am here, looking at your ugly face.”

“Esca!” Marcus cried, sensibilities never so delicate or scattered by such a crass comment. In truth it was nothing worse than anything Marcus had ever said to his close friends, nothing Sherlock would not have said to get a rise out of Will or to make a boring tea more fun, but here in this stranger’s house under these bewildering circumstances—and coming so close on the heels of the actual fuck itself, when all times before it had only ever been imaginary—Marcus’ ears heated up and he found he could not look directly at any of these men, but only at Esca, whose superlative acting skills had him momentarily a terrifying stranger to his own husband.

“Marcus—“ he snapped loudly in response to Marcus’ outcry of embarrassment, then controlling himself, he added tightly, “I need you to wait outside.”

“I won’t,” Marcus snapped back.

Esca, looking irritated, looked back at Placidus and continued, “You have robbed me twice. First you took my father’s money with no intentions of paying it back. And now you've robbed me of my pleasure. Prepare yourself for you will pay _dearly_ for the later."

Marcus gulped as the small hairs on the nape of his neck went on end. Could Esca be serious?

Mr. Eames entered the room then with a sour expression and a hand print blooming across his face. He promptly reported that he had taken it on himself to lock Levitt and his sister in a room because they had started to team up against him, “They know something bad is afoot down here, that’s for certain.”

“Mrs. Placidus can thank her husband for the disturbance of her otherwise quaint life,” Esca said steely, “If not for _him_ then matters could have been dealt with neatly elsewhere. A simple hand-off of his coin purses, a few comments about the weather and he could have been done with it. As it is, we have to be inside now to stay out of sight of the constable while I teach him the lesson of what happens to those who think of doing anything _other_ than paying the debts they owe.”

He moved closer to Placidus, then, squatting to rest on his haunches before him, “What will it be, Placidus?” the nobleman asked, “A few ribs would have been in order if you had simply confessed to not having the money, but you thought to thwart that conversation altogether, and so now a few ribs would be too kind. Don’t get me wrong. I like doing the ribs. I like how you can’t even _breathe_ without remembering the debt you owe the Hound. But it cannot be only the ribs, now, can it? Now it must be something else. Something _visible_ which others will see and you which will have to find a suitable explanation for...” the nobleman tilted his head and looked around at his friend, “What shall it be, Eames?”

“The nose?” the man suggested at random. Esca did not seem impressed, and looked next to Thor who smirked and said, “Take one of his eyes--Fury could use it.”

Mr. Eames laughed. The son of The Hound, though, remained quiet, his head tilted pensively. His eyes were cold. So blank and dark. “Hmmm,” he said at length, “The eye. It’s a little _dramatic_ , but considering the before mentioned inconvenience you’ve caused me I am warming to the idea.” Esca smirked as his victim made a choking sound, “You must not have believed me when I said it before, but you really will pay dearly for ruining my morning. I am angrier than I have ever been.” Very sharply, he suddenly turned to Marcus, and said, “Marcus, my love, do I seem angrier than ever to you?”

 _This is an act._ Marcus realized even as he answered with flippancy which blossomed out of nowhere (as if Esca himself had ordered it in some secret connection between them), “You do seem a little less in control of your temper, dearest.”

Esca sighed, “I was afraid of that. Marcus, do please go. I do not wish you to see me like this.” He pulled from his pocket a penknife with a white bone casing engraved with his father’s initials. Marcus had seen him use it to cut paper down to size while helping him bind his books. He knew the blade to be wickedly sharp.

Placidus cried out to God and began trying to escape the clutches of the men who held him.

 _He has to maintain the image of the Hound’s power,_ Marcus thought in a surreal burst of understanding. As if a part of him--the very part which had responded flippantly when sensing that Esca’s character needed to be wed to a fruitful who could not be shaken by these evil deeds--was resigned to simply watch Esca’s second personality play out to the scene’s gruesome end. That same part of Marcus thought, _he needs you to be strong right now. He needs them to think you support this._

That part was only a small portion of Marcus, but it was rooted so deeply in him, was the very same part which urged him to be whatever he needed to be ever since his own father needed him to be a man and not a lovely. It had power over the rest of him, power over those parts which screamed and begged for his good, kind, gentle husband to return. Those parts which cried and said over and over that it mattered not what the Old Man would have Esca do in this situation, he, Marcus, could not bear to see Esca inflict pain on another person.

With a painful twist in his chest, Marcus all at once and from head to toe yearned for Alice’s kind hearted Papa. The image of Esca holding a tiny, _tiny,_ fragile new baby and swearing to God he would love it as his own lent Marcus the will and the strength to speak up and save that good man from his father’s sin. He moved swiftly to stand between his husband and the victim. “I cannot allow this!”

Placidus’ trembling, swollen, bleeding lips parted as he gasped and cried, “Thank you, s’am! Bless you for saving me! He’s a _madman_ —“

“I did not say you can speak!” Marcus roared at the debtor, surprising even himself with sheer _volume_ and, good lord, the anger in it was not an act at all; there actually _was_ a well-spring of proper rage from which to draw as he turned on the cowering man, “Remember, sir, you robbed _me_ of my pleasure as well, and I shall like to see you pay for it.” How true his own statement was alarmed Marcus to the bone _._ Even as anger flashed through his veins, he chuckled outright with incredulity. “Interrupting a fruitful man in his change back is in line with taking food right from a bear’s jaws; it was very foolish.”

Closing his father’s penknife, Esca’s eyes flashed with a glimpse of something other than cold power. But Marcus could not enjoy seeing the reactions he produced in his husband. In that moment, he _hated_ Esca for bringing everything to this. Why could he not stay, forever, the same tender man he was last night?

“You have always been good at making apt metaphors concerning your condition,” Esca complimented with sparkling eyes, a quirk in the side of his mouth that Marcus irrationally wanted to bite. In direct contradiction to that desire, he had a thought to slam his fist directly into the center of those quirked lips, but he stemmed the urge, still understanding the importance of presenting a united front to The Hound’s enemies.

Breathing deeply to contain himself Marcus said as evenly as possible, “I insist against your impromptu surgery only because I find it poor form to forcibly extract an eyeball from a living man when a wife and her lovely brother are in the house.”

Fortunate Levitt was no older than Cillian, and his sister a woman whom Marcus had never laid eyes on, was no doubt a fragile little thing as well, and she was surely ignorant of Placidus’ gambling problems when she married him. This was _no_ way for anyone to learn of such seedy secrets; Marcus felt that he could intimately vouch to that fact.

“What do you propose I do instead, my dear?” Esca asked, dark eyes sliding back onto Placidus in a contemplating and chilling manner. The warmth that had cherished Marcus through the night was still utterly gone. Had Marcus imagined it?

“Give him an extension,” Marcus suggested.

“I do not give extensions,” Esca said at once, cold and sure.

“ _I_ do,” Marcus said. With great effort, he played the part of a Fortunate Lord who had signed up for a life as Son of the Hound’s laying-in-fellow, a lovely who should be as feared as any man.

Speaking still to his husband, he made his voice sugary with promise, as if to him they were doing nothing more interesting than arranging a picnic, “You and I shall return home and have our breakfast in bed as we planned. Mr. Placidus shall have the hour to deliver the funds. I believe that is more than fair…” he dropped his head imploringly to one side and reached out to stroke a finger down Esca’s collarbone, his bare chest visible through the open front of his jacket. “For the boy’s sake, at least, darling. Please?”

Esca trembled under Marcus’ finger. A thrill shot through the ex-soldier. The whole of Northglen Park was cowering in fear of the Son of the Hound, but the Son of the Hound was at _his_ beck and call. It gave Marcus an idea of how to handle the victim in the floor behind him.

“F’ord,” Guern said to Marcus from behind the bandage stemming the blood flowing from his nose, “you are over estimating this one’s character. He will likely skip town rather than pay.”

“And we cannot have that,” Esca agreed sourly.

“No, we cannot…” Marcus mused, mind racing to fill in the details of the idea he’d had. He moved closer to Placidus, close enough to see the faint outline of bruises coming in. The man flinched away from him like one might a hot torch held too closely to the face. It felt reckless to do so, but Marcus had no better ideas, and so played on the Old Man’s reputation, inventing truths about their relationship on the fly.

“Did you know that it takes but _one_ little word from me for my dear father-in-law to change marching orders from broken ribs to shattered knee caps to extracted eyeballs to worse?” a glance at Esca proved that this was a good angle to play, “Or I could call him and his son off entirely—it all depends on if I like the person. But I haven’t decided if I like you yet. …I would like you if you swore to pay this money today. Do I like you, Placidus?”

The man nodded.

“I’m not yet convinced,” Marcus circled the chair and Thor, who boldly dropped him a wink. “Swear on your life that you will pay within the hour.”

“I swear. I just need to speak to my father about it—it’s my inheritance, we’ll need his signature—and then-then it’s yours.”

“Hmm,” Marcus stopped in front of him again, caught his eye. “If you break your word to me so shortly after ruining my morning, I will kill you. I have taken lives for less." His heart thudded hard in his chest with his sincerity, and Thor’s satisfied smirk slipped into a look of astonishment. Being the second sincere death threat he had laid out that morning--indeed that hour--Marcus did not recognize himself in the slightest. He cleared his throat nervously, returning to Esca’s side. Their eyes met. Esca’s knuckles brushed his in a ghost of a grateful hand squeeze.

But Marcus had told the truth. Somehow, this sordid business and Esca’s reputation in it far out-weighed anything Marcus had done for Queen and Country; if he had killed for politics, he could kill for this. His head threatened to spin again. God in heaven what world had he woken up in?

“I have the hour?” Placidus asked.

“Yes,” Guern snarled, annoyed, “You have the hour to reclaim your honor. Do not waste it.”

Esca glowered at Placidus. “You are benefitting from my husband’s Change for it has him quite compassionate this morning. Had we arrived ten minutes sooner or ten minutes later, I feel confident he would instead be ordering your beheading. As it is, it pleases me to please Marcus. Therefore you have _one hour_. I advise you in that time to speak to your accountant and think of a reason to get the lovelies out of the house for when Thor and Eames return.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Really _do_ try to get those sweet ones out of the house,” Marcus said, words dripping magically with the same kind of honey Miss Swann used, “just in case I change my mind.”

“Yes, s’am.”

They quit the house. Mr. Fury and Thor mounted horses and kicked off in twin gallops without so much as a look back at any of them. When Esca opened the carriage door, Mr. Eames once again jumped inside but this time, the nobleman barked, “EAMES!”

“Right-o!” Mr. Eames said, bouncing right back out and onto the back where Esca had ridden before. Guern climbed shakily up to sit next to Peter, arm elevated. Smirking, Esca handed Marcus back inside and then climbed in after him. Marcus sat stiffly on his side of the carriage, eyes fixed out the little window, teeth clenched against his anger. The return journey was set at a more leisurely pace, and nothing was said until Northglen Park was out of sight

And then Esca fell to his knees in the carriage floor in front of Marcus.

The nobleman’s throat pulsed, and his lips twitched as he said, “You were splendid back there, Marcus. I always said you have the ability to fit perfectly into any situation, to be anything anyone needs you to be. I cannot have known, though, that you could take a role like _that_ in perfect stride!” he laughed, a shake of his head, “If I did not believe you had experience in matters of gambling debt before, I certainly do now. I wish you had told me. I would have included you when you asked.”

Marcus turned his face more towards the window and said nothing.

“Love?”

Marcus bit his tongue angrily. For this could not be happening—Esca had not just betrayed Marcus’ trust so greatly only to afterwards praise how well he had masked his pain.

But praise he did, and it was delivered through _such_ a shining smile--the smile of Alice’s Papa, who had been so desperately missed only moment’s ago--and wasn’t it a great weaknesses of Marcus’ to be praised and loved? Hadn’t he done worse to gain as much from Liathan? He used to cruelly tease others, flirt with married people, spend money excessively, break things, and go through other people’s desk drawers, just to get this same reaction from Liathan.

What was threatening a cowardly man who had thought to hurt his friends compared to all of that?

The carriage swayed and bounced over the rutted lane back to their home. Esca, on his knees before Marcus’ lap, seemed so young with that inquisitive arch in his brow, the soft part of his lips, the humor and pride in his expression wavering to show uncertainty and fear, as if he was finally catching on that just because Marcus had joined in on the act did not mean that the act itself was forgiven.

And on top of it all, his hair was still disheveled from their love making, a bronze mess of cowlicks, those ears sticking out.

Marcus’ lips were actually twitching, fighting a smile. He was not about to _forgive_ Esca so quickly…was he? He felt such a roiling tide of emotions within his chest that he dared not trust his voice enough to speak. He felt as if he were spiraling out of control with nothing to grab onto, for when he reached instinctually for the previous night—when he sought an example of which to point and say _ha, what about this, Cunoval? Did_ this _mean nothing to you_ —he could not. The only thing Marcus could recall was the single promise they had made: last night was to stand alone, the past and the future ( _today_ ) could not touch the intoxicating surrender they had shared.

They had forged a love that time and circumstance could not touch.

Fat tears rolled down Marcus’ cheeks and he shuddered, all at once able to name that senseless fear which had so puzzled him last night after he surrendered to the pull of Esca’s love. Unconditional devotion. He had sensed that he had irrevocably entwined himself with a man he barely knew. His heart had known with utmost certainty that there _had_ to be more to Esca than a grown man who rode his horse sun up to sun down and who loved tall, muscled lovely men enough to marry and keep a dishonest one who was still swollen by another man’s love.

Marcus had jumped head first into a stranger who could have very well turned out to be the biggest mistake of his life (the denial of his gender and Liathan included) and yet he had known as he fell--somehow--that it did not matter what Esca turned out to be: he would follow the man through anything.

What could possibly be more terrifying than that?

He gently pushed Esca’s hands off his knees, still without a word.

His endless love for the man did not mean forgiveness. He had more to think of than himself. What of Alice? Dear little Alice… she was too pure to belong to the wretched family of The Hound. With suffocating solemnity, Marcus knew he had let her down by bringing her into this darkness, even if just through connection. He had sacrificed her safety in favor of merely saving her name; she would have been better off a bastard.

Now she was the only grandchild of the Hound, a target for all of his enemies.

Marcus felt he was going to be sick. He had gone into this marriage too blindly, too recklessly, too caught up in his own selfish desires to care what sort of man he married, what sort of father he gave his baby. And he had somehow begun to think that it had all magically worked out, that he had been lucky to stumble so easily upon a good home and a good man, had been blessed to have his selfish prayers answered.

This was the home he’d blindly begged God for. Well, this is the home he blindly got.

And he had surrendered to Esca the same way, marrying their souls, so that now to separate would be to die and so there was no right thing to do. Because to stay would be to keep her in danger, but to leave would take from her a loving Papa and Marcus as well, for he would be an unhappy husk without Esca, unable to raise and care for Alice as she deserved.

Sensing Marcus’ retreat from him, the nobleman climbed back onto his seat and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “May I tell you a story?”

“You had best tell it from the beginning, and leave out not a single detail.” Marcus said hoarsely. His fingers were shaking. He hated himself for loving anyway, for loving _still_ and loving always. He could not look at Esca. His heartbeat seemed to ask, _what-have. I-done? What-have. I-done? What-have. I-done_?

He watched the countryside amble past his window, tears falling freely as Esca spoke.

“I learned that my father was known notoriously as The Hound when I was thirteen,” Esca said. “My brother closest to me in age, Ewan, had just become a man and had entered the family business, but he could not tell lies as convincingly as…” Esca considered and then smiled slightly, admitting to his knack at playacting, “the rest of us…He took after my mother in that regard. Anyway, he let slip a chilling detail to me one evening as we read together--I believe I told you once that Ewan was bookish and enjoyed dramatic readings? Well now I admit that I, too restless to sit for any length of time to read, took advantage of it. I confess to knowing every classic while never picking up a single volume, but of course, they are all in his voice.”

With a wet sniff, Marcus dried his face and turned sideways in the carriage seat in order to bring his knees to his chest, for he needed closeness and warmth because the world seemed vast and unpredictable this morning. Esca continued the tale so readily that Marcus knew the man had been arranging the facts in his head for some time, ready for elocution.

“But back to my story. Ewan let slip a detail that I knew at once was something he ought not to have said, and I was quite alarmed to learn that there were secrets in my house. My own father and brothers were up to something unfit for the lovely? For that is how Ewan described it to me when I asked, that I shan’t know of what he spoke, for it was unfit... Naturally, I could not rest easy knowing that such a dark thing existed, and so I pursued it. I asked my eldest brother Cradoc, who denied everything. I asked Papa--as I called him through my childhood, I was thought lovely so was taught to use the lovely words--I asked Papa who basically said what Ewan had. But then I asked my mother, and she told me everything.

“She was able to tell me because my father never lied to her. Know Marcus that I never wanted to lie to you. That was never my intention. As I told you during our courtship, I intend to have the kind of marriage that my parents had. I should have told you the truth—I know that. But I could not bring myself to admit it to you. Not when your ignorance provided the single thing I had yearned for since I was thirteen years old: a life untouched by this darkness.

“My mother explained to me how we made our money from the races—both the breeding of race horses as well as the gambles made on them. It is not strictly legal, but it is very lucrative. In truth, it affected my way of life very little and so I soon accepted the facts as a young one does. It was not until I was several years older, never blossomed, and quite miserably stuck between genders, when Cradoc made a mistake.

“The details are hazy to me even today, for Father continues to shield me, but I have investigated and discovered enough to wish I had never learned the truth. You have been told that it was a fever that took my family from me. It was more accurately murder. Enemies of my father and brothers retaliated the mistake I mentioned, and my poor mother was caught in the crossfire. A poisoned bottle of scotch, if you can believe it. It was gifted to Cradoc and mother innocently partook of it with her eldest sons. Their symptoms were very much like a fever… they… did not die swiftly.”

Marcus had stopped breathing. The revelation crushed him and made his mouth dry, his throat pulse. He did not want to believe it. Having already detected how much danger all of this presented to Alice, it stopped the heart in his chest to hear that his fears were not unwarranted. That she really could die for the sins of The Hound, because others already have.

“The culprit was found out,” Esca continued, “and--I have no proof, Marcus, but it is my belief--that my father killed the man in cold blood.”

At this, the fortunate man sobbed outright. The world, which had been so heavenly as the sun rose and the sheets stuck to their sweaty skin, had turned into hell. Absolute hell. Murder—especially poison-- happened only in novels. Or, at least, in cities far away from these quiet green hills. And Old Cunoval…a cold blooded killer? No. Marcus had sat with the man, played chess with him—was writing the man’s memoirs for God’s sake, how could this have remained such a secret to him? Marcus was crying, sobbing, but Esca stayed on his side of the carriage, aware that he could do no better comforting than finishing what needed to be said.

Pained, pale, Esca continued softly,

“It was always but a matter of time for the truth to come out, for had I not told you, then Father’s ailing mind would have eventually. The evening he mistook you for Cradoc had my blood run cold for I feared that he would speak to you on Hound matters. I should have told you then, but I had already fallen in love with having you the way you were, so pure and removed from these matters, so blissfully ignorant. When I was with you we could have the life I wanted. In your eyes my father has been nothing but the good hearted solider that served with your uncle, and for that illusion to last the rest of his life enchanted me. Forgive me, my love. It was a child’s wish to have his Papa back.”

“Esca,” the word broke from Marcus’ lips, but he quickly pursed them together once more and hid his face in his folded arms. Within the dark, close cave of his bent body, Marcus attempted to shut out the horrible truth. But Esca’s voice reached him,

“As I imagine you do now, I have wanted nothing to do with this business from that terrible day forth, but I could not leave. My father has no one left. His mind started to go when we lost everyone--when he avenged them, I think it pushed him beyond the brink of sanity for he has not be right since. If I had gone when I wanted to go, he would have harmed himself attempting to keep at it, and I could not have that on my conscious. So I have stayed, shackled here where something as beautiful as a horse can symbolize something as wretched as torture and bloodshed. Yes, I have a passion for riding beyond what is healthy, but can you blame me? The hills and the horses do not murder each other over money. They call me a recluse, well I am one. I loathe people. The world has only taught me how unworthy most of them are. I would never speak to another living soul but for you if I could… but as you witnessed this morning, there are some matters that require my personal handling.”

Marcus realized Esca was crying as freely as well when the man reached to dab his jacket sleeve through his sodden whiskers, “O, Marcus, last night was a piece of the heaven which I fear God will deny me when I pass. Please know that I will cherish that time with you forever, no matter what you choose to do. If--If--If you leave…” he stammered and choked, wiped at his face again, rasped, “don’t forget last night and how we promised nothing could touch it, nothing could taint it--and please tell Alice that she had a Papa who only let her go to save her.”

“Dearest!” Marcus choked, falling forward into the space between them and Esca sobbed and caught him.

Weeping, they clung together in the swaying carriage.


	20. The Beginning of the End

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I usually hate to do chapter-specific warnings, but if I put these in the tags it will make it seem like this fic is way darker than it actually is. I don't want to label the whole fic with something that is just a small part of one chapter.
> 
> This chapter has mention of domestic abuse, violent spouses and endangered children. Also discussion of suicide. These topics are only in this chapter and do not reflect the plot for the whole, or even the rest, of the story.
> 
> PS: sorry for the month-long delay! Hope these final chapters were worth the wait!

Marcus cried into Esca’s jacket collar, holding on as tightly as he was held, seeking a shred of the peace and security he had felt in these arms the night before. The nobleman made a noise of inquiry against his hair, and so Marcus grunted with a bump of one shoulder and put forth his thoughts. “I gave myself to you because I can see that you love Alice as dearly as I. You are her Papa. But in Northglen Park I lost you; I did not know the man you became.”

“He is a wretch,” Esca said at once, “a mask, an extension of my father and nothing else. _I am not he_. You must know that!”

Swallowing Marcus released Esca to allow space between them again, wiping his eyes, and admitting. “I don’t know what I know anymore.”

Breath rushed audibly from Esca's lungs and he asked in that huff, "You doubt me?"

"Did I ever even know you?" Marcus countered steely voiced and hard chinned.

Esca looked away, as lost as a child on the moor, and then he looked back with a flash in his grey eyes. "You know me,” he said firmly. “I have told you the bare honest truth.”

Something in that flash, what it did to the color of those penetrating eyes, bespoke truth to Marcus. It was the same sincerity Esca had put forth ever since Marcus first met him and thus it eased the mother man a bit; he did not feel quite so alone. But there was still the rest of it to consider, the new facts to take into account, and so just as quickly as Marcus felt sure, he was once again cast into the tumult of confusion.

“Which is why I cannot understand what is happening; if you hate it so, why not refuse to do your father’s bidding?”

Esca’s body rocked with the sway of the carriage, and he looked exhausted, “He is my father, Marcus. With your own history you cannot pretend that a son does not yearn for his father’s acceptance. You know how we will do anything for them.”

“How can he ask for you to continue the very work which killed his wife and children?”

“The Hound is more than a name. It is a reputation, an honor, which is--it is… _reprehensible_ , yes, but it is respected and that is all he has anymore. The sacrifices he made to keep it… What choice do I have but to ensure, while there is life in his body, that all he did was not in vain?”

Marcus listened to the thud of the horse and creak of the carriage, considering this. True, a son will put himself aside to please the only father he has. But could the Old Man truly care so much about his reputation? The man spent the greater part of any day believing that he was the commander of an army at peace time; not a lord heading an underground gambling ring--or whatever it was.

“Explain to me how it works,” he commanded. “You gamble with my money? You risk sending us into poverty?”

“No!” Esca cried, “No, not at all! Gambling is involved, but it is not what we do. Here, let me explain. If a gentleman wishes to wager more money than he has on hand, we loan him the funds. Whether he wins or loses, he pays us back with interest. In this way, we always profit.”

“Always?” Marcus asked dubiously, “And what of the state of this place when I came here? If you always profit, how then did you come so near ruin?”

“Two years ago, my father was still actively running things. As I have said, he was… _unstable_ from avenging our family, but he was lucid. The dementia which is rotting his brain now did not have such a firm grip on him then. But that was when it started to show itself. I realized it too late, while someone else noticed and took advantage. I was not there or I would have stopped it. A deal was struck with a gentleman-- _far_ too much money, more than the man’s estate could ever pay off, which is the sort of deal we would normally never do, for how could we ever expect to see a return of the investment?

“Upon realizing what had been done, I immediately took over that part of the business from my father and attempted to retract the deal. Things got… ugly… Marcus, I shudder to think of myself at that time; it was my darkest hour…But the money could not be got back, and I was so angry… In the end we settled on a payment plan and an interest rate that would set things right. However, shortly thereafter the man died. _Not_ by my hand, but by his own. The debts being of a secretive and illegal manner, there was no way for us to legally demand the money from the surviving estate and we had to cut the loss, which crippled us. There were not enough outstanding loans to survive on the incurring interest of them, and we did not have enough to front money for others to bring in more interest. I was forced to sell a lot of our assets. Eventually, we could not even buy decent horses, so falling back on our legal means of income failed. We struggled along on pure credit; I saw not a single shilling in my name for a year and a half.”

“And so you married me.”

Esca’s gulp was audible. “It was not just because of your money, Marcus.” He breathed, “I meant it when I said you were too perfect to be believed, when I said you were my every dream incarnate. Before you, life had gotten so desolate and my heart so hard and bitter… I would sometimes look at myself and I would not recognize who I saw, nor did I like him at all. There I was: penniless, not enough of a man to be considered one at first glance (for I was _still_ constantly having to correct assumptions towards my gender), and there was that man’s blood on my hands (for I believe it was my threats which drove him to his miserable end) and on top of it all I was the only surviving son of a man that I could no longer deny was mad.

“Having let go most of the staff, the estate began to fall into disrepair. I would go to the track to see the outcome of our races, hoping against hope that one of our less than desirable horses might win so spectacularly that others would pay handsomely for a breeding share and we might see ourselves out of debt slowly but surely. While there, I would overhear men talking of my family, how it’s our own fault my mother and brothers were killed, how the Hound is nearly bankrupt and probably insane, and how his pretty little fortune marches around trying to pretend he is a real man… I started to wonder what could be the point of staying in England. I was seriously considering abandoning it all, my father, the house and everything, and going to the Middle East to breed Arabian Stallions like I had dreamed of doing as a boy…” Esca trailed off, eyes focused on that distant dream. He laughed softly at himself before continuing,

“Cottia took it upon herself to write to your Uncle as my father, pretending we had decided that I would marry.” Esca smiled with a fond shake of his head, “For that I will never be able to repay her. Imagine my surprise when one afternoon I stepped into my sitting room and _you_ launched yourself upright so forcibly that the chair scrapped back across the floor. You held a plate of biscuits and had stuffed one whole into your cheek, and there were crumbs down your front.” Marcus noted the affect his tremulous smile had on the water standing in his eyes, it glimmered and sparkled in the strong light of day, “You were the single most beautiful thing I had ever laid eyes upon. And you were so endearing with your easy mannish ways and your fumbling loveliness, so interesting with your battle stories. And to my delight you and your uncle spoke of my family with utmost fondness and respect, as if our evil deeds never were. It was as if you were an angel delivering to me my wish to have a clean name once again. I _had_ to make you mine. I allowed you to rush us into marriage, too caught up in the way you made me feel like I was alive again to ever stop and consider your hurry…

“You can understand now why I kept you after learning your secret. Your lie in the face of my own was miniscule and, true, it was a blow to learn that your purity was only an illusion, but that stain was not enough to blot out your beauty or the peace you brought me by simply being near. It did remind me, however, to take things slowly. I wished more than anything for you to love me, truly, and so whenever I needed to escape from the darkness, which was often, I would turn my mind to you and how I might win your heart. I was prepared for it to take years, Marcus, for I had vowed to go about it carefully. I wanted it to be right. Our relationship was the only good thing in my life anymore; I had to make it good even if it meant not telling you the truth, least it scare you away, even if it meant not taking you when you offered. Believe me it was difficult to deny you.

“… and it pains me to say it, but I see now that I should have denied you last night. I have done you a great disservice, taking you when you did not truly know me at all. I--I am sorry if I have hurt you. I am sorry if you re-regret me. I… I knew you would if you learned of all of this. But I could not--I could not stop. I have wanted you so--“ his voice finally broke, and he did not go on.

Marcus stared in wonder, heart thudding heavily. Tears blurred his vision. He was sure and unsure at the same time, he was thankful and bitter, forgiving and furious. He blamed Esca and he blamed himself instead, he blamed the Old Man, and then he blamed God, too.

The carriage came to a halt and Marcus helped himself out, but did not turn towards the house. He struck out towards the horizon, needing to gain space and solitude in which to think. When Esca asked after him, Marcus made no answer and lengthened his strides. He was grateful that Esca did not follow.

 _Why_? His heart asked the sky in bleeding sincerity, _everything was going so well, and now…_

The plain fact of it was it had been easy to love and now it would be hard; Marcus felt like a petulant child who had been made to stop playing and start working. And so he asked why, why could they not have played forever? Wasn’t life short enough? Hadn’t they both worked enough? Suffered enough?

Stretching, untouched, between them now over the physical distance that Marcus opened as he walked away, was the love they made. It might as well have been a thread stitched into each of them, a string that if cut would send them both falling into oblivion. That love did not begin last night, though that was when it had bloomed into its full splendor. It had roots as far back as the sitting room when Marcus first felt that grey gaze burning through him. It had grown and spread out over the weeks and months since then, each time Esca displayed patience, desire, fondness... and possessiveness.

Memory of their merged bodies, blended breath, and tremulous smiles of delight and wonder brought stillness in Marcus' chest, a core that held the weight of a rock and the glory of the heavens. He thought of his time with Liathan and the dark days of abandonment that had followed and thought, _what a waste of energy_. For he knew now that he had not known love before this; he could _not_ have, for he had not been true to himself, had not known God's intentions for his existence. Now he did know; he knew himself as a fruitful man, a friend of outcasts, a sater to a sweet baby, and the lover of a tender, lonely soul.

 _I love him still_ , Marcus thought to God above, _Is this not why you made me, to love him like this?  It feels as if that is so._

The notion at once comforted and troubled him. To know one's purpose satisfies a desperate uncertainty within one's heart, yet Marcus' purpose went against his own safety and that of his child. Instinct warred within him, an instinct to stay with the man he loved, and an instinct to flee the man he feared. Thus, he was being driven away by the very thing that made it hard to leave… and he _must_ leave, mustn’t he? Esca lied, and he was violent, and he made enemies who would harm all whom he held dear.

Alice. His heart thudded heavily with the love he had for her soft little head so tiny it would fit in just one of his hands. He wanted to go to her and kiss her and apologize to her for putting her in the middle of such excessive violence, he wanted to explain to her that Esca was and was not her Papa...but there were no words that would make her understand, not even in twenty years when she could speak English and French and Italian. Marcus would have to admit that he did not use his brain, that he had been so caught up in his family’s honor that he forgot to double check his husband’s.

There was no choice; Marcus had to take Alice away.... Right? But then how could it feel like it was not an option to go? What could God mean by putting these opposing feelings in his heart? _You gave me Alice as surely as you gave me Esca. So how could you have brought the rest of this about? Do you just like to watch us suffer under the burden of the hearts you give us?_

Tears slipped down his face. He drew a slow deep breath, feeling the tightness in his chest. He let the breath out, and yet the tightness remained.

 _I don't understand what I am meant to do._  

After circling an expansive pasture by idly following the tree line, Marcus cut through the open space and crested the hill. There his eye lit upon the rooftops of the village below; among them the home that housed his dear mother and uncle. The fresh air had dried his wet face, and the sloping terrain stretched his legs. He walked as quickly as he dared with his leg threatening to cramp, but he could not stop to ease it. Movement seemed to clear his head, as it gave the impression of action towards fixing this new dilemma in his life.

He reached the townhouse slightly winded, and thrashed upon the door hurriedly, for he needed a seat before his leg buckled. A servant opened the way, and Marcus stepped through with a breathless good morning, inquiring, “Is my mother in?”

“She has gone to take a basket to the poor with Siss Kitty, but your Uncle is home, f’ord.”

“Good,” Marcus panted. He hobbled into the sitting room and lowered himself into a chair, where he was found moments later by his father’s brother who stuck his white head into the room with a furrowed brow. “Marcus? Heavens, are you alright?”

“No,” he gulped. “Something dreadful has occurred--or rather it has been discovered, for it has apparently been happening all along.”

“You are pale. I do not like this. Slow your speech and breathe, sa’am. Here, will you take some brandy?”

Marcus reached for the glass. Uncle smiled slightly, pleased to see that there was a close fix at hand. He unstopped the snifter and poured a measure into a glass that went into Marcus’ palm and then down his throat in one swallow.

“Good heavens. If your mother was to see this, she’d have a heart attack, Marcus. You had better get yourself collected and try your hand at explaining.”

“It is Lord Esca. I have only just found out. He is….he has been…”

The older man leaned back slowly in his chair, comprehension smoothing the worried lines out of his brow. “The Hound?”

Marcus blanched. Uncle looked partially guilty and nodded. “I know of my friend’s operation. It was but a rumor Tatty brought home until now.”

“Uncle. Why could you not warn me? Better yet, how could you have sent me to marry into this--“

“I sent you to marry into one of the most honorable families I know. Naturally when I heard the rumors after your engagement, it saddened me, but such is the world, nephew. Ugly things happen and men make mistakes. Cunoval is paying for his greed, and he shall continue to pay for it until he is dead. But that does not change who he was to me. Who I know him to be under the best circumstances.”

“Is it not how a man acts under the _worst_ circumstances that show us the true nature of his character?”

“I hope to God that is not true. Otherwise, we are all of us hell bound, captain.”

Marcus’ eye ticked, and he gritted his teeth against the memory of his most gruesome battles. Captain Aquila folded his hands. “I gather that Lord Esca has resumed control of the empire in his father’s stead.”

“He claims to be trapped by honor.”

His uncle gave him a look of intrigue at this phrasing and he realized it implied that Esca was telling a lie to excuse his other lies. Falling silent, Marcus considered the words he'd chosen and noted the tiny slither of fear that he had been attempting to ignore since Northglen, but here in his uncle’s presence, he suddenly found that he had a confidant, a fellow soldier who might possibly understand the horror.

What if that eyeball business had not been an act? He wanted to believe that it was impossible for one as loving as his Esca to be serious in such a threat, but then again, if the pendulum could swing so far into passionate love, then it would swing equally far into passionate cruelty, could it not?

And time could only tell, but was there not the possibility that one day that cruelty would be turned onto Marcus—or worse, Alice? Swallowing dryly, he focused on keeping his voice even as he spoke, “He swears that it is all an act--but I saw it, Uncle, with my own eyes, and….I am afraid that he is naturally cruel. .”

“He is a man pushed to his limit, Marcus. He is the same as you or I or any soldier who has fought abroad. The only difference is that we know the horrors of warfare only as phantoms of faraway lands, but your husband knows them as part of everyday life. He does what he does and says what he says because he has to. He cannot simply return to England to escape it all….”

In a way, this had been precisely what Marcus had been hoping for: a quick and loving understanding, a sort of instant forgiveness. It was what Marcus wanted to do, but he had not the strength to do it alone. However, Captain Aquila, while comforting his nephew thus, did not necessarily offer the reassuring words the nephew would have liked to hear.

A man pushed to his limits was volatile and dangerous. And often, once a man had been shown his limits there was no going back. What if the business of The Hound was but the first excuse? What if it has taught Esca how to give reign to some natural inclinations? Marcus knew many a solider who had been so changed by battle as to beat their wives and children over a matter of a dropped spoon.

What if, in the future when love's first blush of excitement has worn away and Alice has grown to look more and more like Liathan so that the entire county speaks of it, what if by then Esca, given any provocation, could be frequently sent into moods of excessive violence? After all, he had become so angry on their wedding night that he broke his own hand upon the door... What if in the future bitterness has worn at him enough that Esca would not send Marcus or Alice from the room before he let fly his hand? What if...

Marcus dropped his head in his hands, heart breaking afresh at the idea of so losing the man he loved. His groan was of misery and a weary hope for an end to it, “What should I do, Uncle? Should I leave him—I don’t want to—but, if it is the smart thing, for my child…what should I do?”

The white haired old man blinked rather slowly and lifted his shoulders a fraction in a casual shrug. “Think how you survived your darkest hour, and ask yourself what Lord Esca requires of you.”

Silently, Marcus considered the darkest part of his career in the military and the course of actions he had taken to maintain a positive outlook on life. The parties, the games, the drinking, and the endless flow of connection with his one and only best friend…“Love,” Marcus whispered. Captain Aquila nodded.

“How deeply do you love Esca?”

Marcus shuddered and could not answer. All those notions of being stitched to Esca, of being made for him, was not the sort of thing one said aloud. However, the aged Captain did not require words. He peered knowingly at the mother man and hummed again. “Nephew, have you ever heard me speak of a Miss Sutcliff?”

“The name is somehow familiar.” Marcus racked his brain but could not recall anything beyond casual remarks about the woman from his mother’s lips. When put to it, Marcus would have to say she was a distant relative—and it would seem he was nearly correct, for Captain Aquila said solemnly,

“She was my fiancé. I nearly married young; only twenty six.”

This news was not old, but it was still somehow not new. Marcus felt that he had known this at some extremely early point in his life and had forgotten the bit of trivia over the decades. “What happened?”

He had never seen his uncle looking so melancholy and pensive. The aged man folded his hands across his naval and said simply, “…She died. She took her own life.”

“Why?”

“Because I was not there for her when I should have been,” resigned anger made the words hard and well rounded, such as the stones beneath an ever-moving current, or a pearl. His poor uncle had been living with this pain for quite some time. “No. I was not there. Dashing off all over the world for glory and riches when there could have been no glory or treasure more precious than a life with her; she was often depressed and dependent on opium. One day she partook too much, whether on purpose or not we will never know. I regret it every day of my life. I feel I could have saved her had I only been with her. She often said I cheered her spirit like nothing else--foolishly, I convinced myself that a letter sufficed when it was my simple presence that would have kept her from the brink.”

“Oh, Uncle…” tears slipped freely down Marcus' face and he only half-heartedly smeared them away. There was no stopping the flow, and it rather felt cleansing to let it out with no restrictions. Captain Aquila bore his favorite nephew’s weeping as best as able without treating him like a woman and offering a hug and a pat to the hair—no that would have been far too strange.

When the rush of sympathy had ebbed, and Marcus began to appreciate the decades between the tragedy and today, he dried his face and sniffed apologetically into a kerchief. His uncle resumed the conversation in a matter-of-fact tone.

“So I advise you thus, nephew. If you love this man, if you feel as if you were born to do so, and if he is in need of help then it is your first duty to help him. Save him from himself--from his father--whomever. You will hardly have the will to live with yourself if you do not.”

|||||||||||

On foot, Marcus passed through the mother gander’s territory, and the bird honked and hissed at him until he had crossed the carriage path. So it was with the memory of Esca’s playful valentine in mind that Marcus entered the house.

A great sense of the surreal settled over him in the entrance hall. He felt as if he was retreating into sanctuary from the madness while simultaneously delving deeper into it. This was the epicenter of the lie, but it was also the single location on earth that Marcus had ever felt truly at home. His head spun, his heart stayed still. He loved Esca.

All was silent. It seemed Marcus was but a ghost within these walls. Then came a crash and the shatter of glass from the sitting room. Marcus hurried that way and found his husband standing before the liquor cabinet, a shattered bottle of brandy at his feet, a newly opened bottle of whiskey going to his lips. He hadn't put on a shirt or combed his hair. It seemed he had been crying until very recently, perhaps the idea to raid the cabinet had ebbed his tears to the same degree that the action of walking had done for Marcus. Esca's plan to drown his misery began with a liberal gulp and the nobleman hissed loudly in pain as he survived it.

“Esca?”

The man jumped and whirled. His grey eyes looked dark, the skin surrounding them puffy and irritated. His bare chest lifted and fell quite rapidly before he said, “Come to gather your things and take her away? Will you let me say goodbye to her?”

Speechless, Marcus shook his head to say _no I am not leaving_ , but the nobleman read it as refusal to grant a goodbye kiss between papa and child. His swollen red eyes flashed with anger and pain. “She is my daughter, Marcus!—oh to hell with it, I _will_ see her. Stand aside.”

Esca charged for the door, taking another gulp from the bottle.

“No,” Marcus choked, blocking his way from the room. He took tight hold of Esca’s elbow, nostrils filled with the rank smell of the open spirits between them. It washed away Esca's usual fresh outdoors scent. Without it, with his face contorted in such misery and fear and pain, Marcus could barely recognize his husband and he felt for one desperate moment that his Esca was already slipping too far away to be caught and saved.

He knew that what he gazed upon was the absolute most secret, vulnerable, worst part of Esca ripped wide open. It hurt Marcus’ heart to see it, this wound that his love had made it his duty to heal—and resolve to meet this challenge hardened in his belly so that his voice was firm, “I do not want her to know you like this.”

Esca wrenched his arm free. “She will not know me at all now! Let me at least have one last hour with her so that I can tell her—I must tell her even if she doesn’t understand—that she will be missed and loved always. That her safety is all that matters, and that the truth is she is not safe with me. I must tell her that I am _giving_ _my life_ to save hers…. I’m letting you go, Marcus… and before you go please know that from the first moment I held her I have been so sick with loathing of myself--for how could I have allowed that she came into a family so stained with violence and corruption? I should have put The Hound down before she came. I should have--“

“Why didn’t you?” the question leapt from Marcus, greedily, eagerly waiting for the answer to this last puzzling piece of Esca's behavior. "You had vowed to keep her as your own and had eight months to prepare for her yet you did nothing. Is it because you enjoy being so feared and respected?"

Esca blinked. “I will not deny that a part of me enjoys the authority that I hold. It is not something I ever planned to experience, believing myself to be lovely for as long as I had. The Hound makes me more of a man in other's eyes than anything else ever would. But, no, that is not why I did not stop upon learning she was on the way to us. The truth is I did not consider her mine until she was here. I know I said I would, and I meant I would _try_ , but honestly, I was not sure if I could love another man’s bastard. I doubted myself, and thus I could not imagine the true weight of her presence in my heart."

This came as such a blow that Marcus huffed and took a step back. Esca continued quickly,

"But once I held her, Marcus, I knew. I sensed she was mine in spirit. She _is_ my little girl, my lovely angel and this past week I have striven to be for her all that she deserves, but like the coward I am I did so in all other ways than by defying my father. And then, last night when you gave in to me, I vowed to be better. I vowed to end it all--for good--as soon as I could. Alas, Placidus’ schemes brought it all to light before I could even begin.”

“You would have kept it a secret from me forever if you could have?”

“I am not proud, but that was my hope. I had planned to tear myself from your arms this very morning and make arrangements to end the business. I comforted myself with the notion that if I could just put it to rest and move on from it, then you need never know, that my past may stay apart from our future..”

Tears slipped heavily from under Marcus’ eyelashes and he bowed his head, smiling weakly. “Oh, Esca, you fool.”

The nobleman did not see Marcus’ fond expression, for he was surveying the finger lengths left in the sloshing bottle, his hands shaking. “I am a fool, and I will pay dearly for it. _Oh_ , I shall miss you both so terribly much!”

His slender body wracked with the force of his sob and he crumpled. Marcus righted him with hands on his shoulders and met his eye. “We are not going.”

Esca hiccupped. Marcus took the whiskey from him and whipped it into the fire place. It shattered, broken glass scattered across the prepared logs, the liquid darkening the wood and dripping against the grate. Marcus folded Esca’s hands around his own face, kissing his fingers and wrists, speaking lowly, “How could I live with myself if I took her away from you and let you become as lost as your father?”

“But you…” Esca's eyes glimmered in the light of the fading afternoon. Mirrored tears burned in Marcus’ eyes. His throat clicked with his dry swallow. He sensed what Esca needed him to do--to hold him tight and swear his undying love.

And so that is what Marcus did.

He wrapped his arms tightly around Esca’s slight frame and squeezed with all his strength; he choked on the words but found that he did not need them, that three words would suffice: “I am staying,” he promised again.

Esca’s hair smelled like sweat and fresh air and _man,_ and Marcus breathed it deeply, remembering how sincere and passionate and vulnerable Esca had been through the night as they made love over and over again. _That is the man I endeavor to save, Heavenly Father. Give me strength to do so._

Esca gasped under the pressure of Marcus’ vice grip, but leaned into it. “I am forgiven?”

“It—“ Marcus began and took a step back with his hands on Esca’s shoulders, “It seems I can forgive you anything.”

“Oh, _Marcus_!—“ he choked and said no more, pressing his trembling lips together and dropping his face to rest on Marcus’ clavicle. The weight of his head brought such comfort to Marcus that he sighed into it and pressed a kiss against his hair. Then he lifted Esca's face and ran his thumbs under his eyes to cut across the tears tracks.

“By your explanation, your omission was out of a place of kindness and love, a longing for better circumstances. I can believe that. It is in keeping with the character of the man from last night, so tender and so filled with love and hope. I sense he is the man you were made to be. And he is the man I want.”

Tears falling freely, sobs uncontained, Esca vowed, “And he is the man you shall have. Until death parts us!”

Marcus believed it. In a thrilling, bone-heavy rush, Marcus knew he was on the right path, that if he continued strong and true he would be rewarded. He also knew it would not be easy.

“You are not quite that man yet, my love. Not entirely. There is still this whole dark part of you that must be saved. That is why I will stay by your side. I will help you become the best version of yourself. You were patient with me as I learned my lovely ways, and I shall be patient with you as you redeem yourself."

"Your love cleanses my soul, Marcus, I feel as if I can do anything. Anything at all."

"You will put an end to your father's business."

"At once."

"I imagine it should take some time to close the operation, shouldn't it?”

“Well... yes. You are right. It is easier said than done..." Esca sounded troubled by this point, unsure; as if he doubted if he should even attempt it.

“Surely most of the work will fall off when you stop fronting the money.”

“Yes.” The nobleman admitted, “But what of the money that is owed to us? I cannot allow it to be written off--the full amount is far too large, and cannot be explained to the tax offices.”

Stumped, Marcus pouted at the floor for a moment until he conceded that there was no legal means out of the fire than straight through it. He sighed. “Then let us collect. But no more new loans, can I have your word?”

“Yes,” Esca said at once. He looked momentarily daunted by the notion, but one look into Marcus’ eyes hardened his resolve, and he nodded shortly. Marcus felt such pride for him then; a man climbing back from the abyss. He pulled Esca into a hug. He felt such an inspiring sense of teamwork then, a partnership that would not be broken by anything. Together they could accomplish all that their hearts desired.

“The hardest part will be telling my father,” Esca said against his shoulder. “I fear he will not see me as a man if I tell him my intentions.”

“I will see you as the best of all men. Will that not be enough?”

Esca nodded mutely, and Marcus fit their lips together in a soft, warm kiss.

Then he hummed softly as a sharp pain crawled into his hip. “Mm, my leg,” he whispered, shifting off it. They settled on the sofa and because Marcus needed to straighten his appendage, he ended up taking most of the seat, leaving Esca only room enough to sit with Marcus’ head and shoulders in his lap. They grinned at one another from this unusual perspective as Esca began to stroke Marcus’ hairline in a slow memorizing way that Marcus was sure soothed them both equally.

“Have you ever spoken to him about discontinuing?”

“I have. When he heard that I had taken action to retract the deal he had struck that sunk us, he shouted at me that I had blackened his name by going back on his word, that I had ruined a reputation that had taken my entire life for him to build.”

“That must have been painful to endure,” Marcus whispered.

“He as good as told me I was a failure as a man. Yes, it was very painful.” Esca's voice was thin, so like a child helpless in the face of his father's ire. Marcus' heart went to him while simultaneously turning on the kind old man who had so happily taken Marcus into his family.

“It is most alarming to imagine my free-spirited father-in-law being so cruel," Marcus admitted. "He has had two faces all this time. To me, he has been an eccentric and lovable old rascal. But to you he has been... so demanding and so heartless."

"Oh, he has not been so bad as all of that," Esca whispered, "And I think that was what made it so painful. He expected so much out of me, but he also showed me such affection. He has never made me doubt his love--but he has always made me work for it."

"It should be given freely."

Esca sighed, pained. “Losing them ruined him. But now the rot in his mind is bringing him back to a happier time. I have to remind myself over and over that it is not right to thank God for his ailment. But there are times when I feel blessed that it has stolen away most of his darkness.”

Marcus sighed, wishing that he could take the weight of it all from his lover’s shoulders.

Cottia entered with the tea tray and took a seat when Esca flicked is wrist toward one of the chairs. She smoothed her skirt before sitting, frowning at the mess of the liquor cabinet before turning warm eyes on the sight of the lords relaxing together so naturally. A smile stretched her face as if there was no other care in the world. “What a happy set of parents.”

Esca grunted. “We are not happy, only clinging to one another as we toss about in a hurricane of madness.”

Marcus smacked his lips in disagreement. “Happy is adequate. We are not yet _blissful_ \--there is so much to do. But that shall come. Only one thing prevents it now; and it _is_ quite like a hurricane of madness. Well said, Cunoval.” His words tightened as another sharp pain radiated from his knee deep into his hip. Esca pouted,

“How fairs your leg, love?”

“It is paining you, f’ord?” Cottia asked sympathetically.

“It has been strained what with the—unexpected walk into town and such,” Marcus adverted reference to their love making only narrowly and had fooled no one. Esca’s grin was red-tinted in the cheeks and devious, and his raking fingers paused to scratch light circles against his scalp.

Cottia let propriety bury the misstep but saw that ettiquette had no firm hold on the gathering as Marcus pressed his face against his husband’s bellybutton. “I made chamomile tea with your leg in mind, f’ord. It should soothe the ache.”

“Thank you, Cottia. How thoughtful. Have you heard news of Guern?”

“Yes. Watson has patched him up, and he is now resting.”

“Watson—he was here?”

“Yes. He is in with the old man now.”

“And what story has he been told?”

“The truth. Guern has hired himself out as a henchman to the mysterious Hound and is now nearly dead for it. You two shall have to act the part of properly outraged gentlemen. To think the man dares work for one like The Hound when he already has a perfectly respectable job as your doctor.”

“Must we?” Marcus asked.

“You wish to tell your friends the truth?” Esca asked. “After what happened to Norrington?”

Marcus was silenced. He could explain that he had had no say in the matter, but then he would have to answer how he could forgive Esca…and that would not be easy. It all felt too private to tell five others.

“But I think Watson suspects anyway,” Esca said.

Marcus blinked in alarm. “And his fortunate husband?”

“It is impossible to tell with Sherly. Watson may have shared the theory, he may not have. Sherly could have even guessed it himself, I wouldn’t put it past the perceptive bastard.”

“I do recall him lording knowledge over me when I first arrived. He cut it out when I began to allude to knowing all your secrets.”

“And he did not press you for the truth?”

“No. Not yet, anyway.”

“Well if he does, then I suppose we will come clean. But if he is entirely ignorant of it, then my wish is to keep it that way. I would like this stain to touch as little as possible of the life we shall lead when it is over.”

Marcus silently agreed and pulled Esca down into a kiss. Cottia’s soft little giggle broke them apart. The mother man cleared his throat, pushing down the heat and energy that the kiss had roused within him. Carefully, he sat up to consume the tea before it became cold. “Esca just told me that I have more than your work around the house to thank you for, Cottia. If not for you then I would have sold myself to the highest bidder in London without having ever met—“ his voice jumped so uncharacteristically in his throat that for one alarming moment, Marcus feared he would be ill. He swallowed desperately and sipped the tea. Then tried again, feeling Esca’s strong hand sweeping up his spine. “without having ever met any of you.”

“He has tried to pass the blame off onto me, then?" she teased with a merry giggle, "Well, that is just like him, isn’t it?”

Esca huffed, smiling. The woman shook her red head, pretending to scowl. “The second it looks like you might be angry for coming here, he points at me and says it’s my fault.”

“It is,” Esca said with a little shrug and a matching lopsided smile. Then looking over into Marcus’ eyes, he said, “And I can never repay you.”

Marcus’ heart fluttered, and he looked at the head housekeeper for want of something to say. She looked sincere, “F’ord, I am sorry we lied to you. I would have told you if it would not have ended with me out in the streets.”

“I wouldn’t have thrown you out.”

“If I had been the one to scare him off, yes you would have.”

Esca’s chin went forward, and his eyes sparked in protest to having been challenged. “Keep it up, Red, despite all your hard work you might still find yourself destitute.”

Marcus glanced in alarm at his husband whose words had rang with rather more threat than was called for in such banter. Cottia, however, hardly flinched. Her eyes reflected the spark in his and then they were both laughing over the lips of their tea cups.

Reeling to catch up, Marcus forced a light chuckle that rippled his tea and his stomach. He was not sure he liked Esca adopting The Hound persona in the house. (It brought too closely to the surface the possibility of the future where time had worn away his tenderness until only violence remained.) Marcus resolved to talk with Esca about that. They will, together, be a united front against that fate.

The clock on the mantel let out a small chime and Esca looked at the brass hands. “Let us summon the boys and develop a strategy on how to end this business. Join me, Marcus. From now on we are equal partners in all things.”

"I did always see myself more as a laying-in fellow than a pretty fruitful husband," Marcus said as he stood, pleased breathless with this development. With the acceptance of his loveliness, he had let go of such notions of equality in a marriage. But finding the chance so presented to him, he grasped at it most desperately.

"Then my fellow you shall be," Esca vowed, and pressed their lips together. "But I shall never stop doting on your loveliness and you must promise to never stop referring to me as your husband whilst going about the village swollen with my children."

"We have a deal," Marcus laughed. It would be unconventional to go about as fellows yet behave as though husband and fortunate, but when were they _ever_ conventional?

 

||||||||||||||

When Mr. Fury stepped into the house, the first thing he said was, “Placidus paid.” Then his good eye roved over Marcus and Esca, finding them both properly dressed and groomed; their tense shoulders relaxing at the good news. Esca cut across the entrance hall to his study and Marcus followed at his side. He took a seat behind the desk and Esca stood with his hand on his shoulder. Mr. Fury shut the study door behind him and studied the fruitful, breasted man behind the desk with a curious expression.

Marcus looked back, daring him to challenge his place in these proceedings. The corner of the black man’s mouth twitched but he said nothing. Moments later, Mr. Eames stepped in and could not make eye contact with Marcus as he apologized for the ruined morning, and then wished him a pleasant afternoon.

He clearly believed that Marcus would step out and leave the men to their business. Marcus made no move to do so. Eames, pleasantries now aside, allowed a beat or two and then cleared his throat and rather less graciously than Mr. Fury had, accepted Marcus’ presence.

Next in was Thor and his first action was to set soft blue eyes upon Esca and lower his voice to ask after the doctor with the gravity of true concern. The man’s compassion contradictory to his vocation eased Marcus and sent his heart reaching out to the blond giant; for if he could break bones but have a heart then so could Esca.

“He has borrowed my father’s chair and the nurse is helping to wheel him in as we speak,” Esca reported to the thug. “He will insist it is merely a scratch.”

Thor looked next to Marcus, a gracious smile, “F’ord I did not get a chance to tell you earlier, but you are as every bit as radiant as your husband has described you. He is a very lucky man.”

Marcus blushed head to toe, disarmed by the sincerity in Thor’s big blue eyes. He had grown used to being so desired by Esca, but to think that he could be fetching to more than that strange little man was astonishing. Esca cleared his throat and with a single look reminded Thor to better school his expression into something more proper in regards to complimenting a married mother man. Thor did so, but winked at Marcus.

Then there came, again, that beat wherein Thor expected Marcus to leave. He looked at his comrades questioningly and then to Esca and then he smiled again and leaned upon the bookshelf.

Marcus watched him discreetly, finding the heat and sincerity of Thor’s compliment alarming and puzzling, especially coming from one so huge. But after a moment he allowed that Thor had first clapped eyes on him when he was without breast band and still half wrecked from intercourse. That would be a cause for sincerity in any man, surely, and thus Thor’s interest was fleeting and harmless.

Last to enter was Guern in the Old Man’s chair. Sasstica helped set him up and then slipped away. Guern, arm, ribs and head bandaged, smirked at Marcus and asked after Alice’s appetite and if she slept well. Marcus gave a happy report and Guen then without missing a beat got right to business, seemingly uncaring of Marcus’ presence.

“I heard Placidus paid what was owed. But if you ask me, we need to make him pay for his insolence.”

“Here, here!” Eames said in full agreement. Mr. Fury and Thor nodded fervently.

Esca looked around at all of them and Marcus sensed that child-like helplessness in him, that part of him which found it easier not to fight against the tide. Marcus took his hand and squeezed it. Esca squeezed back, stood straighter and said, “There will be no more violence.”

Silence met this and Esca squeezed Marcus’ hand tighter. At last, Mr. Eames spoke up with a polite inquiry into what the nobleman could possibly mean.

“Gentlemen,” Esca said to them, “I am putting The Hound to rest.”

They stared agape, Esca took Marcus’ hand in both of his as he continued, “It is my father’s work, not my own. I have shouldered much of the responsibilities of it for some time now, but I will do so no longer.”

“Esca, surely--“ Guern began but Esca cut across him.

“There will be absolutely no further lending of funds to anyone whatsoever. You have all served me honorably, and I will see that you are well compensated for your loyalty, most especially if you stay with me and see this to its end. We will collect what is outstanding and when the last penny is returned then you all will go your separate ways and never speak of what you have done here ever again.”

“With all due respect,” Mr. Fury said in his measured way, “You cannot expect collection to be easy if we do not resort to our usual methods when the situation demands.”

Esca’s resolve flickered.

“Words only,” Marcus spoke up. All eyes went to him then and he sensed that they knew to blame him for this sudden turn of their employment prospects. He swallowed but continued in his firmest voice. “We will threaten until we are blue in the face--with the Hound’s history, it is well known that his threats should be taken seriously and thus I do not think, if we are sincere enough, that we should actually have to resort to drastic measures.”

Mr. Eames laughed, “It wouldn’t be that simple.”

“And why not?” Marcus snapped, bristling against the condescending laughter.

“Some of these fellas, they let any and all threats go in one ear and out the other. Some of them, it’s not until they are hurting and fearing for their lives that they get around to selling their grandmother’s clock or what-have-you to come up with the payment.”

Marcus hummed, “Then they will fear for their lives, but without being beaten.”

“And how does the Fortunate Lord intend for us to make them do that?”

“ _You_ will not be the one doing it,” the ex-solider said as it suddenly occurred to Marcus that if he wanted this done right then he would have to do it. Looking up at Esca, he said, “If anyone proves too difficult I shall deal with them personally.”

“Is that wise?” Mr. Fury asked, narrowing his eye.

“He did get Placidus to pay without laying a finger on him,” Thor said with a broad smile. “I’ve never seen anything like that.”

“Put the fear of God back in me,” Mr. Eames said, “And I wasn’t even on the receiving end of it.”

The gentlemen laughed, and Marcus blushed. Esca turned and took both of his hands, “I do not wish for you to be so involved.”

“We are in this together, love,” Marcus said.

“But your condition is so unstable--can we trust that your compassion will not take a turn and get in our way?”

“We can trust that my love for you will bring out in me whatever is needed to save you.”

Esca pecked him on the lips and then, straightening looked back out at the others, who had respectfully averted their eyes and turned in amongst themselves. They looked back at their boss now with fond smiles.

Smiling widely back at them, Esca said, “This is the beginning of the end of the hound.”

: :

When they had concluded their conversations and planning to end The Hound, those men left the house and Esca called Lestrade in to discuss the various ways that the end of his illicit business would affect the honest side of the estate. In truth, it was very little. Indeed, without large sums of money being withdrawn and handed over to strangers it would operate even smoother.

Lestrade had greeted Marcus with his usual friendly address of “Captain” and had asked after the baby and when Esca had announced that from now on if Lestrade had some estate related thing to bring to Esca’s attention but found Marcus first, it would do just as well to give it to Marcus.

“Ah, fellows, then,” Lestrade had said with a merry smile, and a wink at Marcus, “I shall be happy to bother Lord Esca less,” he said to Marcus teasingly, “For he always looks so annoyed to have to speak to anyone but you.”

Pleased, Marcus said graciously, “And I will enjoy speaking to you more often. You have been so kind.”

Lestrade sat back in his chair and began to relate to Esca some story about their horses’ recent performances in the latest races, and Marcus paid attention, quickly realizing that the steward was nearly as horse-obsessed as Esca, and when he felt he had learned enough for today, he excused himself.

“I will leave you two to your horse talk. And for future reference, I do not need so many of the finer details. Please only brief me on the highlights that are relevant to business.”

“And how can a single piece of what we have discussed not be relevant?” Esca asked.

“A half hour debate on the precise shade of Hadrian’s mane is not, I think, necessary to keep the books balanced, do you?”

Both men chuckled and Esca conceded, but kissed Marcus’ knuckles before he went out.

|||||

Halfway to his room--he had thoughts to take a nap--Marcus paused at the bottom of the stairs and went instead to the old man's room. The curtains were drawn. The decrepit soldier slept deaf to the world.

Nurse Sasstica was not present, and so Marcus settled in the nearest chair to collect himself in private. Esca’s father looked so innocent and childlike against his pillows, yet he was not; he was the local loan shark of Brigantes. A man of greed and violence and insanity. It could not be so….

Marcus stared until he could imagine the younger man his father in law had once been. Yes, there it was: dramatic features strikingly handsome like his son, vibrant with youth and power. But Marcus knew this man’s eyes to be darker than Esca’s; a midnight blue that held heat more easily than Esca's cold grey. Both managed to hold fire and ice as needed; perfectly capable of holding a reputation based on fear as well as a strong, passionate marriage based on sincere love.

Standing there beside the Old Man’s death bed, it was easier to recall his sessions with the rascal, passing the slow parts of the day trading stories….there had been some instances where dark clouds had come over him. Marcus had allowed that the loss of his family haunted him, but he could never have imagined the exact nature of the loss. The man had not only lost his wife and children but himself to the madness.

Heart hurting for the poor old fool, Marcus wept and exited the room. He supposed the man's past did not matter. What mattered was that Esca had inherited the troubles and stood now on the brink, set to follow his Father into the impenetrable darkness, and Marcus had so unwittingly married into the whole mess. And now, it seemed, it was his duty to clean it up. Well, he would face the challenge with fortitude.

He went next to the nursery, seeking a light of any kind to warm his chilled soul. Alice was awake and showed life at the sight of him. Cottia, knitting in the corner, let herself out to allow for some privacy. Marcus scooped up his baby girl and, taking the chair Cottia had vacated, opened his shirt and set to feeding her.

“All will be good yet,” Marcus promised her. “You have your family and are safe from the scorn of your origins. That was the first thing I endeavored to do for you. Now we will build your home.” He breathed in the scent of her head, taking it deep into his soul where he would never forget it. “It will be good and happy. You will feel safe and loved. You will never want for anything. Your Papa and I will give you the world.”

She suckled and suckled and eventually, he turned her over to his other breast where she suckled for a bit and then fell asleep. He set to memorizing the feel of her small weight in his arms, fitting so perfectly into the crook of his elbow; he knew she would grow up far too quickly. So quickly that he felt pressed for time to do away with The Hound. If only he could snap his fingers and have it all gone, in the past, as if it never was.

“Marcus?” it was Esca, stepping quietly into the room without his usual force, as if he knew he crept into a predator’s den and wished to tread lightly. Marcus grinned and motioned him further into the room. “Would you like to hold her?”

Esca came forward eagerly, and Marcus handed her over, pulling his nipple from her mouth and closing his shirt. Esca’s eyes tracked it and then, with a grin tucked in the corner of his mouth, he looked down at the baby in his arms.

Marcus saw the wake of emotions on his face as the nobleman blinked rapidly and took a deep breath. “Thank you,’’ he whispered somewhat hoarsely. “You could have left me by now. You could have let me disappear into my own demons… yet you have stayed. I will never have the words to convey my gratitude or my love.”

“You do not need words. You need only prove it to me in action. By becoming the man I know you can be.”

Esca accepted his marching orders with a curt nod and he fell into silently memorizing Alice as Marcus had been doing earlier. When the baby stirred and burped in his arms, a boyish smile put creases in his cheeks and lit up his eyes.

Marcus’ heart danced in his chest at the sight. He had not met this carefree, adoring Esca since this morning-and it felt like an eternity ago that they had been tangled together through the night. It felt rather like Marcus had climbed out of a cool lake and stood browning under the sun for so long his skin had dried only to be splashed by the refreshing water once again, reminded of how utterly perfect the water’s temperature was and beaconed back into the depths.

“Will you come to bed now?” he asked lowly. It was early, but it had been such a chaotic day, and nothing seemed more appealing than a soft pillow and heavy blankets to block out the world. Except perhaps the things one might get up to with another warm body in the bed—the flickering thought left Marcus considerably warmer in his clothes, and slightly breathless. The sensations promised to carry him away from the madness on swift wings, and he surrendered to the escape most willingly, “Let us go back to the end of the world.”

An enchanted expression spread across Esca’s face, and he nodded.

The most surreal day of his life now at last concluding, Marcus breathed deeply as he followed Esca into his room and began undressing himself in the open just as one would undress at a lakeside before diving into the glorious depths. Esca stretched out on the bed with a sigh to watch. Once Marcus was in his nightshirt, Esca mused aloud, “When I saw you march away from me toward your uncle’s house, I thought for sure they would insist on your leaving with them immediately once you confirmed the rumors.”

Marcus had shared with Esca the shocking truth that his mother and uncle had known more than they had ever let on, but he had not had the time to garner Esca’s true reaction to it before the boys had arrived for their meeting of disbandment.

“They could not have made me go even if they had tried.” Marcus grinned over his shoulder coyly. The playfulness made his heartbeat increase as if he were flying downhill on a chariot-- _free_. It also made Esca’s eyes spark in that wonderful way. Marcus settled on the bed, figuratively careening headlong into that love his uncle advised him to hold onto or die. “I cannot give up so easily on Alice’s papa. I believe you need us as much as we need you.”

With a rustle of clothes and blankets, Esca sat up and slid closer across the mattress, breathing, “Yes! Yes--then you understand?”

Marcus understood that this love was unlike anything he had ever felt before. With the prince, he had felt as if he was spinning out of control alone, often felt the distance between them even when they sat close and talked for hours. But here with Esca in this moment, he knew that he was not hurtling alone, and it was almost as if there was no distance between them at all, even though Marcus had yet to join him on the bed. He nodded. “I understand that we have blundered into something so much bigger than both of us. If we are not careful then we are surely to be lost.” He sat and took Esca’s hand firmly as a silent plea to never let go. Esca’s fingers tightened around his, reminding him silently of his vow never to abandon him.

Breathless, Marcus smiled. Esca’s other hand slowly rested on his hip and slid back to his lower spine. “Did you miss me this afternoon? We were merely in separate rooms, yet I cannot say how earnestly I missed you--more than could be right. Almost as much as when I thought you were leaving me. I simply detested not being near you. Lestrade feared I was coming down with something. If this is the natural reaction to intercourse then I failed to comprehend your acute misery when first we met. To be so truly separated from your other half as you were…it is not living at all.”

“Esca…” Marcus wanted to laugh but felt to bewildered. “ _H _e__ was not my other half. And as I have just said: no one shall separate me from you. I am determined to stick this out with you, for better or worse, as your husband.”

Marcus captured his lips and settled his weight over Esca’s hard little body, relishing the way his hands slid hungrily down his back and up beneath his nightshirt. But he did not undress him. After stroking Marcus’ bare spine, he straightened the shirt back into place, and broke the kiss, panting,

“Dare I believe you have truly forgiven me?”

Gasping slightly for breath, Marcus rested his forehead on Esca’s collarbone and made himself think. Esca's patient embrace comforted him as he thought where to start. “Speaking to Uncle on the matter has afforded me great insight…. I have forgiven you your lies, have allowed that you have had little choice in your actions…” the rest of it was harder to confess, and Marcus took a few breaths to manage it, “but I have not yet found peace with it. I do not like having the hound matters dealt with in the house. I love you, but I am still angry at you… no, I believe it is anger towards myself more than anyone now.” He frowned. “I should have guessed your secret; I _would have_ had I not been distracted by my own silly problems. Had I been of sound mind and body, or at least capable of acting so, then I would have inquired why the estate was in debt in the first place. I would have allowed talk of the races to carry on more often than I have done and I would have heard of the hound much sooner. You deliberately kept me in the dark, but I aided your lies with my blindness. I did not see it because I did not want to see anything that would taint my happily ever after.”

Esca shook his head. “I stand the most to blame, Marcus. I lied. I schemed, even. No I did,” he insisted, when Marcus rolled away from him to argue. Esca rested on his side, facing Marcus closely enough for their noses to brush. “Cottia insisted I tell you the truth, but I knew that unless you loved me you would leave me, and so I focused on winning your heart rather than revealing all of mine…it was manipulative and evil and I am ashamed of myself.”

Marcus put the man’s face to his chest. “Then we are made even, for I did exactly that when I talked you into marrying me.”

Esca laughed. “You did no such thing. You forget. I wanted you from the first moment I laid eyes upon you.”

The slight buzz that had been beneath his skin all day stirred into something more forceful that quickened his heartbeat and thickened his manhood. He rolled into Esca to show it off. “Hmm…my dear…might we?”

A frown bowed Esca’s lips, creased his forehead, and he trembled. “Y-you would join with me even before I am redeemed?”

“Your love redeems you, Esca. So make as much of it as you can.”

“ _Marcus_ ,” Esca groaned and devoured his mouth in yet another stunning kiss. Marcus dropped his head back on the bed, Esca rolled to cover him, and they kissed more as Marcus’ body rose with alarming rapidity, his breath shortening, his blood heating up. Oh the things--

Once again Esca stopped. He lifted up on his hands, pulling his lips from Marcus, “No, I am sorry. But no. I do not deserve you.”

“Christ, Cunoval. Do not leave me so unsatisfied,” Marcus moaned, pushing up against him. “My body is _burning_ for you.”

“But I have wronged you most—“

“There is goodness in your heart, my love.” Marcus panted, “That is the part that I need now.”

Esca looked into Marcus’ eyes for a moment and then his chin went forward and his eyes flashed with fierce determination. “Then that is the part you shall get.”

He moved further away and Marcus cursed him with the fluent tongue of a military man. Esca chuckled fondly from the foot of the bed where he had moved to. He began undoing Marcus’ trousers and pulling them off.

“I must suffer for my lies, Marcus. But you shall not. Catering to your Change is my sacred duty; I will not leave you unsatisfied. But I myself will abstain until I deserve you.”

“Esca—“ but the rest was lost when—quite suddenly—Esca put his lips around the tip of his cock to suckle up the dew.

Marcus’ head thumped back on his pillow, the feeling of his cock slipping into a corpulent ring of lips to meet the tip of a fluttering tongue, the faintest ghost of teeth across his foreskin enough to wash away the world. He tried to work his voice but strangled and garbled unintelligibly. Esca’s fist closed around what his lips couldn’t reach and pumped him fluidly, pulling Marcus’ skin down to bring the exposed head of his cock directly up against Esca’s moist tongue.

His whole groin pulsed hotly, and his spine burned, his hips leaping up for more. He hit the back of Esca’s throat and the man gagged, spitting him out, “Careful, love, I am new to this and surely not as adept as your previous lover.”

“Oh, Esca,” Marcus laughed in half fondness and an overwhelming need to be back in that warm mouth, “I never did anything like this with him—never…hm, more. Please.”

Esca’s eyes flashed and he lowered once more to cover the tip of his cock, now working it further back than ever before, fisting down to the root in firm, swift strokes.

Marcus clutched his head and tried to move and Esca stopped again, batting his hands away, “Please don’t hold me so, Marcus.”

“But-- _more!_ ” Marcus panted, and lifted his head to look down at his lover, kneeling there and crouched over his lap, he pushed his fingernails backwards across the man’s skull “I want more and I want to hold onto you.”

“You may touch me as you are now, but holding me in place and forcing yourself down my throat stings my pride a little.” He winked.

Marcus chuckled, “Apologies,” he tugged gently on his hair, whispered, “I just want as much of you as I can get.”

Esca’s eyes glittered and he looked down at Marcus’ cock glistening with saliva. Almost pensively, he stroked it in a squeezing, slow rub root to tip and back, watching as the pink head peeked from the dark foreskin, “I would die rather than disappoint you again.”

“You—“ but his words stopped there because then Esca boldly put his mouth around the tip and pressed it further back than ever so that it brushed the back of his fluttering throat.

Marcus’ eyes went into the back of his head and though he could feel Esca choke a little, he could not stop the man as Esca continued on and soon had his lips and nose plush with the bushy curls of Marcus’ body. He was _down_ the man’s throat. Marcus had never considered such a thing. The pulsing channel of Esca’s throat pulled deep heavy throbs from Marcus’ bones.

Esca but barely moved his head back and down again when Marcus was breaking, his flesh giving a twitching jerk and bleeding down Esca’s throat. The sound which left Marcus as he died was a low guttural groan. Esca crawled back up to lay alongside Marcus but kept his hips and straining erection away with space between them. Marcus reached for the bulge but Esca caught his hand and laced their fingers. "Not yet, darling. Allow me my penance.”

Marcus grinned but snuggled into his husband’s firm narrow chest and with the comfort of Esca’s fingers through his hair fell asleep.


	21. A Laying-In Fellow's Hard Work

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning for mentions of gambling addiction, mild lactation kink and, I guess orgasm denial (or whatever it is that Esca is doing to himself. lol)

As was perfectly typical of any fortunate marriage in the month following the birth of a child, the lords Cunoval scarcely left the bedroom. They shut themselves away in sanctuary where nothing existed beyond the walls. Marcus lived in comfort, never bored as like those early days when they had feigned this kind of lover's abandon, and had sat the hours through in awkward silence. In fact, this was by far the most arousal Marcus had ever experienced; more than his entire adult life, in but a handful of days. Almost anything would set him off. Sometimes, simply climaxing would be the trigger to another one, always bigger than the last.

He slept, and came, and ate, and cried, but mostly came. He was not surprised when he started chaffing. 

Esca's resolve to deny his pleasure through so much love making quickly took its toll upon the fierce nobleman.

It was evident straight away that Esca regretted his own tenacity. He cursed more than ever, and the fire blazed in his eyes, his breathing abruptly turning to the panting of a wild horse at a moment's notice. More often than not he held Marcus with the hot outline of his arousal making itself known against the changing fortunate, and still he did nothing to ease himself nor would he allow Marcus to make an attempt for it.

"It is just as well that I will not, Marcus," he grinned as he cleaned up a mess of three spills piled together on the sheets, "I should never be able to keep pace with you. Christ, look at this. I've never seen so much before."

He continued to share a bed with Marcus through the night, of course, and it was his swift fist, or his wet mouth which more often than not wrung copious amounts of hot splatters and salty tears from the mother man during the small hours of the morning. Sometimes Esca lay back and allowed Marcus to rut against his hip. Sometimes he would sit across the room--"For safety's sake, my love, let me remain over here for a spell"--and simply watch as Marcus pleased himself.

Touching himself in these circumstances was suddenly new and exciting. And the thought of being watched by Esca now was nothing like that mortifying incident so long ago, when Esca had walked in on him thinking of Liathan. This was so much better. Because in these instances, Esca gave him directions like a stage master, and always held his gaze dead center with those lustful blue-grey eyes.

His passion did not ebb with the denial of his satisfaction; indeed it only increased. "What sinful delight you ignite in me, Marcus, it will damn my soul while saving it. Love is contradictory in that way. It gives both eternal life and darkest death."

Marcus hummed, relishing the movement of Esca's hand on him. "Have I tempted out the poet in you?"

Esca bit him soundly on the nipple, "and the animal. That is precisely my point. I am gone mad in my desire. It feels a curse and a blessing."

"Hmmm--touch me," Marcus prompted and put Esca's fingers in his mouth to slick them.

As he opened Marcus's body and prodded deeply against that spot, he growled and ground out obscenities with vows, blasphemy with praise. "If I could be inside you now..." He gritted out, and Marcus outright begged that he be so but Esca shook his head "not yet" and his whole body quaked with the temptation.

Marcus came for the fifth time in as many hours and could not believe it as he watched Esca move about the room to contain and ignore his leaking cock.

"Surely you have suffered enough."

"Four days would redeem a deliberate betrayal of your trust?" He shook his head incredulously. "Your blood runs so hot you would forgive me anything. Once you are fully Returned, your desire for me will disappear in fear and loathing unless I have proven myself by then.”

In this enlightened way, Esca continued to dominate Marcus, giving all that was needed and more without daring to take a single thing, determined to regain Marcus’ heart and his honor with what he had begun to call his Great Purge.

Marcus was mesmerized by the display of rigid control and moved by it. This man so wanted to be the best version of himself, the best possible husband to even a wretch like Marcus, that he swore abstinence throughout a mother man’s Change Back. Honestly, he didn’t know where Esca got these ideas sometimes, but he could hardly complain. Esca kept a perfect record, never once meeting an arousal that he couldn't complete and thus Marcus never went unsatisfied. No small feat, for he remained busy not only as a husband in the bedroom, but as the lord of Brigantes in the village where he had publically set to clean up the underworld that had so threatened his friends.

All matters regarding the legitimate horse trade, as well as the illegitimate Hound dealings, were handled by Lestrade but brought up for review around lunch each day. If Marcus could be tempted to use his brain instead of his body for any quarter of an hour, they worked together, but as the Return truly took effect on his system, Marcus was either delirious with need or in such a deep sleep he appeared dead to the world.

Understandably, Lord Esca managed to handle business perfectly whilst Marcus slept it off, but Esca had even found some portion of his brain that allowed him to continue working (reading letters and balancing accounts) _whilst_ lending a hand to Marcus (when the mother man suffered those moods where he needed release but did not require affection.) In this way, they progressed through their many obligations with some rapidity and together found humor in multi-tasking.

Their decision to begin immediately dismantling had not been blessed by the Hound himself, for when Esca had attempted to speak to his father on the matter, the senile old man had become so confused and frightened that a heart attack had been very narrowly avoided. The nurse had used a sharp tongue to ask that they never again force the present onto such a weak mind and heart. And so, Esca had had no choice but to go ahead, behind the man’s back, disassembling his life’s work. The best comfort Marcus could offer was that what the man did not know could not hurt him.

Once begun, the collection of the wayward funds ran smoothly in a majority of cases. With the lords of Brigantes aware of the stain on the county, most guilty parties were eager to restore their honor by delivering the funds to the jackals waiting on the moors. Lestrade reported only a few instances of scuffles and only one brush against a suspicious constable—all in all fine work. It seemed the most trouble happened at the races, where The Hound’s absence was felt and very much hated by those who did not give a damn for public opinion. Rather a lot of gamblers had come to rely on the generous loan shark and now grumbled to many ears the audacity of the fortunate lord to steal Esca’s time such as he had—more than one gentleman attempted to come to the house to speak to the old man himself, and met with Lord Esca’s darker side all over again.

Esca’s reputation as a man had never been strongest.

The more Marcus learned the more certain he grew in his understanding of the true Esca Cunoval. Prior to the Revelation, the man had stared and offered little response, but now he almost never stopped speaking. Any miniscule action brought to mind a memory or a humorous thought that spilled out of Esca in what appeared to be the man’s honest attempt to hold no secrets for the rest of his life. In small increments, and idle moments such as this (often had while Marcus lay wobbly and breathless, recouping while Esca remained tensed, panting slightly but insisting he would be Purged) Marcus’ trust in the man was reinstated.

When Esca was not systematically (and rather coolly sometimes) taking Marcus apart in the sheets or allowing him to sleep off his exertions, they lay together in perfect comfort, whispering, laughing, and trading stories that tied to their deepest, darkest secrets, wildest hopes, and most unruly dreams. (Hormones had Marcus’ nightly visions taking a turn for the truly fantastical and other worldly, and Esca encouraged the ideals to be written down in case a novel should present itself from the fragments, though Marcus blushed to consider printing such private details, for his knowledge of Freudian interpretations made them far too sensitive of material.) Marcus became accustomed to falling asleep with Esca's heart beneath his ear, and fingers tracing his hairline.

Sometimes they bickered. The heat of their combined bodies under the covers brought out a short-tempered diva in Marcus. Esca's self-inflicted frustration would have him quick to accuse Marcus of "deliberately attempting to set him off," sometimes claiming that a simple rub of his eyes to get the sleep out had been purposefully done in such a way as to arouse him. "I haven't forgotten that day you posed yourself like a whore while adoring some puppies."

Marcus was used to, by that point, of being called a whore by his husband; in fact, he requested that Esca use such language whenever circumstances forced him to watch from out of arm's reach. But, of course, that language had it's time and it's place, and Esca's misuse of it put him down in the floor with a pillow. He would have stayed the whole night there but within the hour Marcus had broken the frosty silence with a sigh and a sharp, "Esca. I have need of you," which had brought the man back into the bed like a sling shot had sent him.

Other times Marcus would lose patience with the Great Purge, and suddenly he really _would_ be deliberately trying to set Esca off. But Esca stayed strong--sometimes by deliberately killing the mood, other times by striking with utmost precision, quickly and almost clinically getting Marcus _right_ where he melted into a heap of senseless joy no longer bothered by anything in the world, and so Marcus never won these battles. Esca's Purge continued.

They saw Alice once a day for an hour in the evening; which hour depended entirely on Marcus' mood. Sometimes it was before dinner. Sometimes it was after. Sometimes it was past her bedtime, but Marcus had her brought to him anyway, for he would suddenly miss her and hate himself for having gone a day without seeing her. Taking evening walks with her were almost the only reason they ever left the room, for they often took meals in bed. They would sit with her, and watch her breath, gurgle, learn to move her hands and kick her feet, and hold her rattle.

Working together to plan it out, they spoke of her future. She would not be sent to school--Esca was adamant that she stay at home, near them; she would instead have the best governesses. Marcus was already worried about her marriage. She _must_ marry; women had no other place in the world. In the same way Marcus was eager to have the Hound done with, he wanted to know whom she would marry and when. She must marry _well;_ they must only give her to a man who's character they could trust. Esca declared that she would be encouraged to marry for love, had his foot down about it, and here they had a brief squabble until Marcus won the argument that she would be made to wait until she was of a mature enough age that she truly knew what love was. If Esca let her marry the first bachelor she set her heart on at fifteen, they would all surely come to regret it.

The worst of the Reversal was marked by the return of Marcus’ body hair. The mood swings became decidedly more aggressive so that their playful tackles turned into something edgier. With this new stage came the insatiable moods, fiercely proud arousals, stark upright and throbbing almost painfully, which threatened Esca’s otherwise perfect track record of having so far satisfied Marcus's every need. Both of his arms often wore out before the arousal broke, his lips sometimes too tired to hold such a tight ring around the flesh. Often, his fingers tips turned wrinkled and pale staying so long in the tight channel of Marcus' body. Their combined frustration roughly mistreated and thus broke more than one item in the bedroom, but Esca never gave up and Marcus always spilled in the end.

A fine sheen of sweat had gathered on Marcus’ skin, drops of it stung his eyes as Esca’s fingers worked wickedly inside of him. It was past midnight but the candles where lit, both having agreed ages ago that complete darkness subtracted from the experience. By now, the candles had burned low, they had been at this for hours, or so it seemed. Marcus had spilled  _six_ times already and yet he had not softened completely even _once_ —nor had Esca allowed a single stimulation to his own erection, which now tented his nightshirt.

Even after all Marcus had so far been through, this was rather alarming; he knew not how Esca could stand this, for he was sure he could not for a moment longer. Part of Marcus feared that he would never again find the release he needed; another part frantically tried to recall if the books on his gender said anything about the last leg of the reverse being _this_ terrible. The burning itch would not cease, and Marcus needed it to. So did Esca; he was on the brink—fit to burst by visual stimulation alone. He rucked his nightshirt up to keep the fabric from brushing his painfully straining, leaking flesh, and he had begun to pant, “Oh, just the sight of you, Marcus. Just the sight!”

The thought of such a thing flipped something inside of Marcus, unearthing a flutter, no a wave that curled high in his abdomen. “This is it,” Marcus promised blindly, his hands slipping wetly over Esca’s trembling torso, as Marcus writhed beneath him, sinking frantically into the coiling heat at the base of his spine. He could feel it, this one would be the strongest finish yet, and hopefully the last. He could spill every last possible drop if Esca could just get him there.

When Esca scissored his fingers and pressed deeper, Marcus’ voice mewled and broke as he promised blindly again, “Yes, you’re doing it, Esca. Come on. Almost have it, more— _ah_ ,” he shuddered with a new sensation.

Esca’s lips trailed from Marcus’ day-old scruff down to the pulse jumping in his throat, lower to the curve of his breasts. Marcus tangled his fingers in Esca’s hair, moaning in delight. How he had come to enjoy Esca’s interest in these glands; it always reminded Marcus that this time at least, he was not attaching himself to someone revolted by his gender.

Marcus’ perky left nipple was squeezed and teased with the greased fingers that had been inside and teasing Marcus for so long, as Esca's mouth covered the other nipple, closing in in the hot embrace of his lips. There, Esca began to suck. Marcus shouted in unexpected ecstasy as he felt a tickle of warm milk drawn.

They had never quite done _this_ before. Marcus had to admit to an initial wave of horror, but it was quickly washed away when the little spurt in his chest gave way to a mightier spurt from his raging erection. His body went rigid with the acutest pleasure, and Esca laughed in victory.

Their shouts were undoubtedly heard throughout the house. Distantly, Marcus worried they’d woken someone, but it was a minor fret. (The valet room was empty, the man having taken up temporarily in another part of the house, as was custom during a Change Back.) Such disruptions were to be expected in marriages, particularly during a mother-man’s change back. The greater matter in his head was the event which had stolen him completely from his body—and the fact that his husband had not shared the bliss with him.

“Darling,” Marcus cried wetly. Esca had collapsed on him, quivering and panting like a stallion, Marcus’ left breast now between his lips, flat tongue roving slow circles around the nipple as his need remained stiff and leaking through his clothes. Marcus gulped for breath and ran his hands over Esca, plucking at his shirt to remove it. “You needn’t hold back. _Come for me, my love_.”

“No,” Esca fended off his hands and laid down beside him, taking deep breathes that were visibly putting his arousal in check already. Marcus couldn’t allow this--one of those wicked moods to destroy the purge was collecting on the fringes of his mind, preparing to take over--but it was several moments before he could find the breath to move an inch. Marcus pushed his sodden hair out of his eyes, fanned the blanket that had never been fully kicked away in the beginning. He lifted to an elbow to loom over Esca's exhausted form, and a bead of milk slipped down his breast. Esca caught it with a knuckle as one might a tear but then casually lapped it up.

Shyly, they glanced at one another.

“How does it taste?” Marcus asked curiously. “Cow’s milk?”

Esca laughed, and shook his head. “It is sweeter than that, like nectar; no wonder Alice seems never able to get enough.”

Marcus cupped himself, testing their weight. They had grown smaller already and would soon be gone. In preparation they had taught Alice to eat from mashed foods, so it had been a while since Marcus had felt that intimate little tug. He had little breath with which to speak, “I think I will miss them when they are gone.”

“I will certainly miss this window of time when you have both breasts and beard.” Esca said, running the backs of his fingers over Marcus’ scruff and getting a large smile from the mother man. He considered teasing the man for his strange tastes, but then moved past it.

“Were you as terrified as I was that this night would never end?”

Relief lowered Esca’s shoulders, and he laughed loudly as he rolled onto his side. “It feels unmanly to complain, but I do hope this condition of yours gets no more severe than _that_.”

“Of course it would not have been so exhausting for you if you had but let go with me…”

Esca shook his head mutely, but his eye glittered when it met Marcus'. “You would have liked that wouldn’t you?”

A laugh pushed slowly up through the exhaustion that was quickly paralyzing Marcus, and he tried to shake his head, but it was too heavy. Any clever response failed to occur to him as the room went dark. His eyelids drooped, sticking together. The bed shifted as Esca arranged their pillows fairly, and then, sated at last, Marcus slept.

|||

Marcus laced his fingers to better fit the new pair of leather gloves. He and Esca were on their way out of the house again to handle a small matter of asset appraisal for an unfortunate gentleman who lacked the monetary funds to pay off his debt. While it would in no way be as edgy as the encounter at Northglen Park, it would require a certain level of merciless authority, and in preparation for it, Marcus’ stomach felt fluttery. He had faked it all on such a whim last time, in the face of true danger, and since then he had not been called to duty. The loyal staff of the house had handled the brunt of those few trespasses from gambling drunkards determined to have an audience. But this would be something else; he and Esca would be looking at all of this man’s possessions and whittling them down to a price. The whole man’s life stripped down to sale value.

It would not be pleasant work, and Marcus scarcely wanted to go, but he would, for he had promised to help Esca through this business to the end…and for a slightly less noble reason, Marcus simply did not want to be parted from him. Not when every ten minutes or so, his body pulsed and fluttered.

Rather like contractions, the pulsations were getting closer together, and Marcus did not want to be alone when they overlapped.

Esca returned to the room fully dressed in his best business jacket and boots. He looked as energetic as Marcus felt, for it was exceptionally refreshing to be in day clothes again, after such a long vacation from them these last several days in bed together. So much so, that Marcus could even forgive the tight waist band of his best breeches, the itch of the breast band, and the less than ideal flourish of heart shaped needlework at his buttonholes—alas, it was the only shirt that fit properly with his engorged chest and flabby stomach. He told himself that it was mostly bloat and that he had not softened _that_ much over the last year.

“You look divine, darling,” Esca promised when Marcus turned in front of the glass once more to check his backside. His overall shape was just wrong. He had long ago come to terms with losing his godly physique, but that had been replaced by his god _dess_ figure—one of Esca’s naughty silhouette drawings brought to life—but now his body was a mushy, undistinguished blend of the two.

Marcus grumbled, not believing his well-meaning husband. He let it slide, however, for there was nothing but time and exercise that could remedy it. The valet helped Marcus into his jacket and with a thank you to the servant, Marcus struck off for the stairs, eager to have the work begin so that it may end all the sooner. Esca matched his stride, stating, “You look flush.”

He was indeed in the middle of a lingering pulsation and giggled. “A hot flash. It will pass.”

“Hmm,” Esca pinched him knowingly in a soft place just before they came into sight of Cottia and the baby. Forcing his breathing to stabilize, Marcus paused there to kiss and tickle his darling little child. Esca left notice of when they should be expected to return, and then they were outdoors in sunlight and cool air.

“That damn goose,” Esca muttered past an amused chuckle as they each quickened their pace through the angry gander’s plot of land, too close to the hidden nest. “And God only knows how many eggs he has lain. We will be over run next year.”

“You had not thought of that when you planned the valentine, had you?”

“It was rather more clever than practical, wasn’t it?”

“I loved it. And Goosey-gander fits right in here with myself and Sir Charles.”

“Charlie is at least useful.”

“Careful, you. That sounds as if I am as useless as a goose.”

“You are more useful to me than the blood in my veins, but you are still a goose playing a swan,” Esca teased as they settled in the carraige. “Was the implication not clear in the valentine?”

A pulsation made Marcus shift uncomfortably in his seat as they set off, and Esca lifted his eyebrows suggestively. Marcus blushed and shook his head. He would rather not arrive anyplace out of sorts. He needed his wits about him if he was to play the part well. By the time the carriage stopped at their destination, the pulsations had ebbed from his anxiety. It was time to play deadly. Marcus hopped out, declaring at once, “the garden statues will be a hundred pounds each, easily. What do you think, my dear?”

It was all in all the wretched business Marcus had feared it would be. The gentleman--who had shut his doors to Lestrade, but could not do so to the Lord of Brigantes himself--complied as best he could, but was quite visibly hurt to part with a number of things they had no choice but to take with them. Thor and Eames, who had arrived earlier with a wagon, loaded the collected items, and then with respectful handshakes, Esca promised to never again show his face in the house.

And back in the carriage, Esca sat next to Marcus and said lowly, “Thank God that is over. I feel so wretchedly for doing this.”

“He put himself in debt, my love. You saved his life by fronting the money he owed, and now it is only right that he return it. He should be endeavoring to make right the wrongs in his life, as we are doing.”

“Away with this subject. Talk to me about our love.”

Marcus grinned and pulled Esca’s face closer for a kiss.

|||

It was an unpleasant morning in Brigantes Abbey when the young Siss Kitty called upon them. Marcus had been in a rage since breakfast, having heard nasty rumors regarding the Hound’s retirement. It seemed there were plenty who considered Esca a weak willed man who would listen to his idiot fortunate husband in matters of business, for it had somehow become common knowledge that it was Marcus’ wish to close up shop. While the whispers had apparently rolled off Esca as water from a duck’s back, Marcus could not forgive so easily. Not when he had seen the flash of honest pain in Esca’s eyes at the first mention of it.

Furniture took the brunt of his anger, as he kicked, threw, and shoved anything he came in contact with. Marcus could not think straight, could not even truly see beyond the flickering red glow of the anger that burned in his veins. The spell lasted all of ten minutes, followed by two hours of embarrassment and heartfelt apologies, and desperate attempts to rectify what to Marcus was an honor sorely damaged. But no one in the house would hear him speak of himself in such a way, and insisted that nothing about his display had been out of the ordinary for a changing fortunate.

The upheaval that had begun the day had nearly settled when Siss Kitty stepped inside, brushing rain drops from his skirts and resting a brilliant blue eye upon Marcus as if startled the fortunate lord should be in this place.

At the sight of the little doll, Marcus’ shamed heart swelled with fondness, and he sprang up from his chair, crying, “Cillian! What a wonderful surprise!”

The lovely pursed pink lips and spoke with a hard edge in his voice, “Well, well, if it isn’t f’ord Marcus up and about with his head on straight.”

Laughing, Marcus promised, “Only just—you have not heard of my tantrum this morning, or at least I hope you have not.”

“I have come to see Lucius,” the boy said coolly.

“Who?”

In answer to Marcus’ question, the doctor—mostly healed and mobile once again-- stepped into the parlor with a happy exclamation of, “Kitten, good morning!”

Marcus nearly swallowed his tongue. _Kitten_? A giggle threatened to burst out of him, but he contained it and made a hasty retreat from the room, forgetting entirely anything like chaperone duties. What a thrilling occurrence! Marcus was not the last in the county to still call the Irish lovely Cillian, but Guern was most certainly the first to alter his chosen name into something affectionate. Thrilled by this, Marcus entered another room and found Esca surveying the grounds through a rain specked window.

The nobleman hummed. “What do you think, dearest? I had hoped to ride to Umbrella Manor today but if this rain does not let up…What is it?” he asked, grinning, when he saw Marcus’ face.

“Cillian has just arrived to see Guern and was called _Kitten_ right in front of me.”

“How sweet.”

“Isn’t it? I left them to speak more intimately to one another…and—I do not think Cillian was too pleased to see me. At least not as much as I was to see him,” Marcus mused aloud, troubled by this new clarity. Usually his little friend was quick to share smiles and stories, especially when they had not seen one another for some time. Had something happened while Marcus had been absent from the gatherings? “Or perhaps I am only paranoid.”

“What was his manner exactly?” Esca inquired. Marcus related the entire encounter, and the nobleman bunched his lips to one side of his face. “That does not bode well. It is true I know little of the the boy, but my impression of him was of an open and caring hearted creature.”

Trouble solidified within Marcus’ gut, and he scratched at his beard. “Oh dear. It does sound then as if I have offended him in some way.”

“I would not be surprised if your friends feel snubbed, Marcus. It has been over a month since you saw them last, and yet you have left this house on more than one occasion.”

Chin lifted, teeth clenched, Marcus allowed himself to flit away from the unpleasant realization that Esca was right and focused on the more immediate problem. He squinted at the bits of blue sky in the distance. “I do not think this rain will last. Let us ride as planned.”

“Marcus—“

“In fact, I think we may leave now. The rain has let off considerably in the last five minutes.”

“My dear—“

“Come, darling, let us have the rotten part of the day done with quickly. To the stables,” he charged away, heart pounding, and left the house by the back door to avoid passing the parlor. The truth was, Esca was undoubtedly correct, and Marcus felt equally ashamed and justified.

What fortunate did not understand that the Great Reversal was tempestuous and unruly? If Cillian and Will could not understand, then Sherly certainly did. Was he not parading his knowledge of the condition as was his tendency? They had to understand that his absence from the group was not meant as a slight upon them.

Esca caught him as they exited the garden, but the nobleman said nothing until they had darted through the rain into the smelly stable. As they worked to saddle their mounts, Marcus sensed that Esca was waiting for him to speak, but Marcus held his tongue. He would not explain himself like a child.

“Dearest.”

“What?” Marcus snapped.

“You are unhappy with yourself and pretending as if it is the world’s fault.”

Marcus glowered and kicked Charlie into a trot. Eagle’s pounding hoofs followed, unable to catch up, until Marcus reigned his mount to a slower pace. When at last Esca pulled even with him, Marcus was near tears of shame.

“I hardly know what has gotten into me,” he said wretchedly. Esca was grinning. “It is all right, dearest. You are simply in a mood today. It will pass and your sense of decency will return.”

“Decency?” Marcus roared. “ _Decency_?”

“Yes, decency. Marcus you snubbed your friend just now. You snuck out of the back door as if you owed Kitty money when all you owed him was an explanation.”

“I will speak to him when we have concluded business for the day. Why do you think I have ridden off into a rainstorm? I am eager to see it all done.”

“As am I. But dearest, you are not required to come along today. It is but a meeting to alter the interest rate to our favor, one that I anticipate to go smoothly for I have known the man my entire life and might have married him had I blossomed.”

Marcus gasped as if a knife had been pushed into his stomach. “What?”

“Which means that you have the day free to see your friends who miss you dearly—and you miss them, you cannot deny it.”

“Oh I see. You wish to convince me to have tea with my friends so that you may show up at this gentleman’s house and flirt until you have your way!”

Esca scowled. “What nonsense.”

“I don’t know, it seems viable to me. Why else should you be so eager to leave me behind today?”

“Eager? It was merely a suggestion! I do not want you to harm your friendships!”

“Who is this man you would have married? And why I have not heard a word about him until just this moment?”

“Calm down. You have heard nothing because there is nothing to report.”

“And yet you _would have_ married him!”

“ _Might_ have—is it so difficult to believe I had potential suitors from a young age? _Think_ , Marcus, I am the son of the most powerful man in the county.”

“I might have stayed behind to remedy my standing with the Unusuals before this revelation, but I find now that I must meet this insufferable man.”

“Marcus, dearest, you are getting far too carried away with my thoughtless words.”

“And you _still_ try to dissuade me with your little smirk as if I am being ridiculous.”

“You are.”

“Take that back.”

“I shall not, it is true.”

“Take it back, Cunoval. I mean it.”

“Or what?" Esca smirked, humor dancing in his eyes. Marcus's blood spiked and his fingers curled into fists.

"How dare you?"

He man laughed outright, "What have I done now?"

"You mock me! You continue to keep secrets--I am giving everything I have, Esca! I am saving your miserable life!" and with that, Marcus leapt from the saddle, catching Esca by the shoulders and dragging him to the ground. The horses whinnied and danced out of the way as the pair wrestled in the mud. Marcus, vision flickering with red once again, felt head to toe stuffed with tingles. The trembles that shook his bones weakened him, and Esca had him pinned in seconds.

“You are out of your mind, Marcus,” Esca gritted firmly. “ _Insane_. You could have killed me!”

Marcus wiggled, lifting his hips and finding delicious friction against his cock for it. He did it again, shuddering slightly. Esca’s dark expression rippled with understanding, and then his scowl set on the edge of amusement. “Marcus,” he uttered mostly to himself this time.

Breathless now, and writhing, Marcus could see nothing but grey sky, beaded blades of grass bowing above his head, and Esca all powerful above him, pressing him into the soft ground. Rain flecked his face and his throat as he rolled his head to let Esca mouth at his neck.

Esca deftly opened Marcus’ trousers to allow room for his hand, which slipped inside the warm clothes and went instantly to work. The pleasure hurt and revitalized at the same time. His body thrummed with it. Marcus fisted the grass, panting, moaning, and then screaming as he fell into the wave of white fire that consumed him.

Above him, Esca panted, eyes half lidded as he lowered for a searing kiss that warmed the rain drops of their faces. Then with a second, smaller kiss to his jawline, Esca closed his trousers for him and lifted up and away. Marcus noted his satisfied smirk and let die the slither of shame that had arose at the realization that they had just had sex on the roadside. After all, no one had come upon them and it had been enjoyable.

“We have ruined our clothes,” Marcus lamented, laboring to his feet. He did not like the feeling of slime within his breeches but little could be done about it. And further more, mud and wet grass clung to them both in telling places.

“You are in no state to make a call to a stranger’s house, f’ord.” Esca said rotating a shoulder that had been jarred in the fall from their horses. Marcus could not deny it. He scowled at his husband. “You did this on purpose.”

“You started it.” Esca said, grinning. “But if it upsets you so, I can postpone the meeting until you can accompany me.”

Marcus sighed and attempted to beat the wet grass off his cloak. He did not want to accept the offer, but he could not make himself release Esca for a solo trip to visit this faceless man who had been a suitor to young Esca.

“It is decided. Tomorrow we shall try again, in a carriage, too I think.”

Laughter jumped out of him at Esca’s obliging but simpering tone. It was not funny, but Marcus’ whole body thrummed as if he were the plucked strings of a violin, making sounds that did not match the picture. He wanted to scream some more but all that came out was honking laughter. He felt on the precipice of insanity, and, at the thought, began to weep even as he laughed.

Esca’s expression as he watched this trundle of emotions pass was one of the utmost fondness, the center of his brow lifted a fraction, the soft curve of his mouth open with a little smile. He helped Marcus back onto Sir Charles, and then mounted Eagle.

“I find it fascinating to consider that you never had suitors, Marcus, despite your wealth and beauty.”

“Of course not. With my height and weight it was easier to play the suitor not the fortune.”

“I am well aware. It is my favorite part about you, my goose. It makes the pair of us match for it was the opposite for me. My slight stature next to my towering brothers was too misleading; we all thought it was but a matter of time for a blossoming to occur. I was forced to play the fortune and encourage every suitor in the county. Mycroft had my parent’s favor, and to please them, I allowed him to be more important than anyone else.”

 _Mycroft_. Marcus repeated the name in his mind until it had lost all meaning. What kind of name was _Mycroft_ anyway? He sounded frightfully ridiculous. “Tell me more about him. I do not wish to set foot in his house without knowing everything there is to know of your history.”

“He is, I think, ten years older than us? There is a gap, anyway. It is how he won the favor of my parents before anyone else. He was already a man and settling nicely in his ways, and could be trusted. The deal was all but made, contingent on my blossoming.”

A sour taste filled Marcus’ mouth. “Do not tell me your first engagement was anything like ours.” The thought of some stranger stealing young Esca away into corners for wicked whispers and lingering kisses was most unpleasant.

“Heavens no! I was but thirteen, Marcus!” Esca laughed. “There was no official proposal, but he did speak to me about it. The most terrifying and embarrassing conversation of my life, I assure you.”

A small smile lifted one side of Marcus’ face at the thought of delicate little Esca cornered by a ridiculous gentleman attempting to declare love to him. “What did he say?”

“Actually, it was I who had something to say. My mother had just informed me that as soon as I was of marriageable age, he and I would join the families together—she _informed_ me, Marcus. No one ever asked. And so I went to Mycroft and I told him I would marry him if he would do me but _one_ favor.”

“Which was?”

“Take me away from this place. Far away. So that I would never hear of the Hound again.”

“Did he agree to it?”

Esca nodded. “And so, as I said, I might have married him if I had blossomed, merely as a way to escape the dark secret of the family that I had just learned—but then I might not have. I like to think that I would not have gone through with a marriage based on anything but love.”

“Not even freedom?”

“It would have given me some immediate freedom, yes. But it would have become its own prison. As it turns out, Mycroft has a terrible gambling habit that I do not think he would have left behind in England had we gone about the world as we planned.”

Marcus chuckled and then considered their reasons for marrying. “And then you were forced to marry for money, after all.”

“Money turned my thoughts toward marriage. I chose _you_ because I sensed how entirely I could fall in love with you.”

||||||||||||

As soon as they were in the house and had assured the staff that they both were unharmed and simply in need of a bath, Marcus cleaned up and sent invitations to the Unusuals via a message boy. Then he turned his thoughts for the first time in days to his household projects. There was so much to do that he felt quite swamped and became glad that they had returned home early, for there was so much more work for him to do here. Indeed, once the hound was scourged from their lives, Marcus felt it would be better to leave the horse business to Esca and focus on the house and everything else after all, for he predicted their individual hobbies would result in such a natural separation and to do anything to bridge it would be excessive work.

Refreshed in his favorite teal shirt and a comfortable pair of breeches, Marcus decided to focus on his latest book project, which stood to be completed in one industrious sitting. With company due to arrive any moment, Marcus had no better way to funnel his excessive energy and so he set straight to work.

His friends entered the house within the hour. Will Norrington wore his usual plain ruffled suit off-set with his beard, Sherlock had repeated an outfit debuted at the beginning of the season that had been such a winner it's second appearance was wanted, and Cillian still wore the gown Marcus had spied that morning, though now it had a flower pinned in place on the bodice.

They found Marcus neatly arranging a large sheaf of paper covered in dried ink and legible handwriting. He stood with a humble request at handshakes, which were given plus kisses to the cheek that felt undeserved. He said as much. “I have not been a thoughtful friend this last month.”

Sherlock waved it instantly aside with a wicked grin. “Pish-posh, you have been understandably detained.”

“I wish that was my only excuse, but the truth is Lord Esca has finally made me a partner in business and I confess I have gotten quite carried away with my new responsibilities. I am still trying to find a balance between husband and laying-in fellow.”

“I told you,” Will said superiorly to Sherlock.

“Anyway, let us sit. You must fill me in on all that I have missed. Cillian, you and Guern seemed quite close this morning—why ever do you have a flower instead of an engagement ring?”

The boy blushed. “I’m workin’ on it.”

Sherlock's eyes snapped to the fortunate lord. “Do you mean to say you condone the relationship, even after the idiot nearly got himself killed working for a madman?” he asked sharply.

Marcus inhaled slowly and met those piercing little eyes of the wildly perceptive man. Did he know that it was Esca that Guern had been working for? It was impossible to tell. Marcus shrugged. “He has not died. And he has seen the error of his ways. Lord Esca and I have spoken to him and he has asked for forgiveness. Beyond that, I know Cillian and Lucius' love to be true and therefore it will not be stopped.”

“He’s tried to stop us, but I keep sneaking out,” Cillian bragged shyly. Marcus laughed freely.

“Then you are worthy of the love! I dare say an engagement will be soon, then, if you are meeting in the moonlight.” The boy blushed and Marcus winked. “I had hoped a spontaneous one would occur this morning. It is why I left the two of you alone.”

Cillian’s thin eyebrow lifted, for the boy was not at all taken in by the lie. Marcus cleared his throat and continued, “It was part of the reason at least. I confess I had rather a lot on my mind. Today has been one of complete madness. If I suddenly turn wretched toward any of you, please ignore me entirely. I mean none of it.”

“Of course, of course. Now what is this you are working on, Marcus?”

“The old man’s biography.”

“Truly?” Will leaned closer to the book in progress.

“It is the abridged version, clearly.” Marcus said, delicately navigating facts. He had sworn to Esca that he would not tell the lovelies the truth about the mysterious hound, and touched now on the subject with great care. “Only the bed time stories he told Esca and his brothers when they were small. Soldier’s tales.”

“How quaint,” Sherlock praised, “And have you added your own to the volume?”

“No.”

“Why ever not?”

Marcus shrugged. “I was commissioned to write his, not my own.”

“I shall pay a fair price to read of your wayward adventures,” Will said with much agreement from the other two. Marcus shook Will’s hand, making it an official deal. “Look for the finished product around Christmas, I should say. But it may take longer. I have not, after all, polished my stories quite as well as the old man has managed in the last forty years.”

Silence fell as they watched Marcus carefully construct a book from scrapes of materials. To keep the party lively, Marcus prompted for a review on Watson home life.

“Apart from Cillian’s dalliances with that ridiculous doctor henchman, the latest of which have been unsanctioned by me and therefore perfectly ruinous to his reputation, there has been little development, in truth.” Sherlock admitted. “Hamish has decided that one day he shall be an actor of all things; John and I have been doing our best to talk him out of it.”

“James has finally mended after his brush against the underworld,” Will announced next when Marcus looked to him. He sounded quite bored with the ordeal that had had the group aflutter when last they had converged. “We have repaid the funds and have not heard a word or seen a glimpse of the apes ever since. It is almost as if they have disappeared into the mists of the moors.”

Marcus grinned. "We've flushed them out."

"Lucius says tat wid ta Lords Cunoval alert to the goings on the hound has run off wid his tail between his legs." Cillian lilted. 

As they laughed and lovingly teased Cillian for having secret meetings with the doctor wherein they discussed apparently all things improper, the butler stepped into the room with the tray Marcus had ordered before his friends’ arrival.

“Oh, at last, thank you,” Marcus said with as much of a smile as he could force through his sudden annoyance. As soon as the servant was gone, Marcus voiced the trouble, “I ordered this tea hours ago—and it is not his job to bring it up. I wonder what on earth could that be about? I know the staff is more efficient than this.”

Sherlock traded a look with the others and Marcus sighed. “What is it?”

“Only that you are forgetting a custom that now applies to you.”

“I am? What custom? I am lost.”

“But of course, you wouldn’t know to expect such things…well, Marcus, the tray was late arriving because _we_ were.”

“What does that mean?”

“You were alone in this room until we walked in—you cannot expect a single servant to brave an encounter you someone as big as you all on their own. Not when Lord Esca is out of the room and you are so…. You should have hired an extra hand to cover the need for a buddy system.”

The implications of Sherlock’s explanation settled in Marcus and rose a chill up his spine. “Are you suggesting that I would attack one of my own servants?”

“No,” Will said instantly. “Only that it is custom to prevent such a thing from happening.”

Marcus laughed. “You are attempting to pull a prank on me, this cannot be true! You make it sound as if mother men are uncontained animals during our Reversal.”

“We are,” Sherlock said with a little frown. “No use pretending otherwise.”

Marcus huffed. “I am not. I mean—“ he stammered as the memory of tackling Esca off a moving horse came to mind. “I am rough on occasion, when I have gone out of my mind, but-but that is only when Esca is near me. I would never turn such a passion on anyone else!”

Sherlock blinked owlishly. “Never?”

“No. Why? Did you?”

Will laughed a little and covered his mouth. Sherlock sat frozen, and Marcus sensed that he had unwittingly bested the fortunate in some way. He glanced at Cillian, who was on the verge of laughter as well.

“Will?”

“If what you say is true, Marcus, than you are one in one hundred," the bearded fortunate explained, "Either you have bested your own instincts and possess a chilling control of your own body, or your love for Lord Esca outweighs it. Either way, it beats Sherly. He loves John profusely, but that did not stop him from cornering me once or twice after Hamish was born.”

Marcus howled with laughter. “NO!”

“I learned quickly to keep away from him until the Reversal was complete.”

“Nothing happened,” Sherlock exploded, unfrozen at last. “It was flirtation only, and I _did_ control myself!”

“I had to beat you off with a fire iron!”

“Please,” Sherlock snorted, “Do not make it sound like such a fantastical duel. You brandished the makeshift sword and I came to my senses, apologized and removed myself from the scene. You were not even harmed!”

The open door granted Esca access without explosions of noise, and the refreshed nobleman wafted into the room, announcing, “Marcus, my love, I’m afraid I must be off again.”

The laughter that had prevailed at Sherlock’s expense died quite quickly and the guests sat staring with widened eyes at the nobleman. Esca stood still, blinking in bewilderment and then unease. Finally, he asked, “What?”

Will eventually spoke, “You look positively worn down, sir.”

“I do?” Esca touched his cravat and glanced at Marcus as if an adjustment to his outfit might correct it. Will gestured loosely at his face with a moue of distaste. “Such dark circles under your eyes, and your shoulders look frightfully tensed. It I as if you have aged a deacade. Haven’t you been sleeping?”

“Ah—no.” Esca said simply, smirking. Sherlock huffed with laughter, and Will grinned at his own oversight. Marcus blushed as even Cillian was able to put two and two together and know that the blame rested squarely on Marcus’ broad shoulders. It was true; now that attention had been drawn to it, Marcus could not deny that Esca looked extremely stressed.

Pointedly ignoring his friends, Marcus pouted at Esca in a bad habit of exaggerating for the sake of illusion. “Where are you going? Who is taking you away from me?”

“It is Lestrade. I have received a note he left while we were riding this morning; details of a horse we have had our eye on. I am going to try to catch him in the village. Won’t take long—” he moved as if to go but hissed and pressed on his lower back.

“Are you well, dearest?”

Esca hummed. “Marcus, I think I might have sprained something with that stunt of yours earlier.”

“Darling!” Marcus begged, giggling, but it was too late. Sherlock had heard too much and must have the whole story. “Stunt? What stunt? If it is not too salacious, pray do sit down and tell us.”

“A tale for another time,” he promised. “ _You_ don’t give anything away, sa’am. It will be I who regales them with the tale of ‘Almost Umbrella Manor’. I am sure I would tell it more honestly than you,” Esca threatened Marcus in a playfully low tone that made everyone glance at their cufflinks. Marcus wrinkled his nose to make an ugly face at such a mean thing to say and Esca chuckled as they kissed goodbye, then Marcus shoved him away toward the village. “You are not likely to catch anyone at this rate.”

“Fortunates,” Esca said amiably with a bow of departure. Then he was gone, and Marcus took a few deep breathes as he meditated in order to clear his head of the ideas that merely the smell of Esca had put in his head. He did not worry in the slightest about being left behind. He had been object to the notion of Esca visiting Umbrella Manor alone, but Lestrade was no threat.

Marcus returned to book binding before he detected Sherlock’s furrowed brow. “Why on earth were you going to Umbrella Manor?”

“Business,” Marcus said casually.

“Not likely. My brother has nothing to do with race horses.”

Marcus paused. “Your bother resides at Umbrella Manor?”

“Mycroft resides nowhere else. He is a worst recluse than even your dear husband. I have not actually clapped eyes on the man since my wedding day.”

“I had no idea _he_ was your brother!” Marcus cried, recalling to mind all the little comments his friend had made on his strange big brother, who would prefer the silence of an empty house to an intimate gathering, a puzzle to a kiss. “Esca said he grew up with you, he didn’t say it was _your_ family he almost married into!”

Sherlock chuckled. “Ah, but they are not my family anymore. They disinherited me when I ran off with John. It is all about money with them. I tell you if you had not married Esca the same day you came out of the blue, then my brother would have made an attempt on you.”

Thinking fast, Marcus said, “It was a matter of business, but not horse-related. Esca had hoped to speak to his former suitor on a matter concerning his late brothers. As you can well imagine, Mycroft would have been one of the last to see them before they took so suddenly ill; my poor husband has become melancholy over the matter of family since little Alice was born. He says he can scarcely remember their healthy faces, and he seeks peace of mind from one who perhaps can.”

“Oh, the poor dear,” Cillian said emphatically. “I forgot he had brothers. He must miss them so much. I miss mine, too."

"Yes," Will said, "but they aren’t dead, only in Ireland.”

“What’s the difference?” Cillian asked, provoking laughter around the table. Marcus howled, sensing his teetering emotions tip from alarm into amusement which he then exaggerated for the sake of burying the sensitive topic of their true purpose in Umbrella Manor in lighthearted laughter and conversation among friends.

 


	22. A Test in Fortitude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings: this chapter again touches on the subject of domestic violence and gambling, just wanted to put the warning here, and also there is bondage kink happening at some point ;)

First thing upon stepping into the house, Harriet inquired if Lord Esca was home. He was not, for he had vaulted out of the house to witness the birth of a new foul. Marcus had elected to miss it—at a young age he had witnessed a cow born and so felt he had seen enough of the like. Plus, having experienced it himself, the whole process held less wonder.

As soon as the lady heard that her son-in-law would not be sharing tea with them, her shoulders lowered, and her chest expanded with a breath of relief.

“Do you not wish to see him?” Marcus inquired over the blow to his stomach that was her reaction. This was the first he was seeing his mother after telling Uncle the truth about the Cunoval family; he had been anxious to know her thoughts on it. Her relief did not bode well.

“I would hardly know how to behave in his presence,” she huffed at once, in a perfect outrage already and not even out of her bonnet, “It is intolerable to even think of his behavior! Though, I will say, I am not surprised. He is so _quiet_! It is _always_ the quiet ones. I thought he might be cruel for the way he turned his nose up at your uncle and me at our first dinner, but I never thought he was the type to _torture_ men-- ”

Marcus, who was relocating the tea tray from the side bar to the table, slammed the whole thing down hard enough to crack a saucer. “He does no such thing!”

“Marcus,” she gasped, leaning forward to grip his hand. “How can you stand it? Come back to London. You need not even stay with us. You could rent your own town house. We can go now. We will take what we can carry before he returns.”

With a huff, Marcus looked back into his mother’s widened, sincere eyes. _London_? He could never—not ever. And to go in that way, without saying goodbye? Unthinkable. Abhorrent.

However, Harriet’s sensible expression, her plan as to how he would live, the calm certainty in her eyes, gave him pause enough to reflect on his immediate and somewhat desperate aversion to the idea of escaping Esca’s grasp. He was suddenly frightened.

Was he so lost he did not know right from wrong?

He had been sure—so sure—that staying was the right thing to do. But… what if that was his folly? What if he was, in fact incapable of thinking for himself right now?

Harriet seemed to hear his silence as a cue to take charge. She stood and had his hand, “Come, quickly, my heart. I shall ring for the carriage—“

“But,” Marcus said, weakly, “It is nothing like as bad as that. It is not that bad at all.”

She resumed her seat and set a determined look upon him, “am I to take it, then that it is a _little bit_ bad?”

“I—“ Marcus began and abruptly stopped at the memory of Esca threatening Cottia in play. Of how some men, once they have begun to feed the beast within, cannot tame it…

Taking his chin so firmly it hurt, Harriet said, “Marcus, do not for a moment compromise Alice’s safety merely for the sake of—of—of fancy!”

“But, Mother—“

“Has he frightened you?” Marcus’s silence was the affirmative she expected. “Has he hurt you?”

“Never!” Marcus instantly said. “He _never_ has, and he _never_ will.”

“And you are certain of that?” Her flat tone worked like a battering ram against Marcus’ certainty. “Were you not certain, once, that he was incapable of hurting anyone? Were not we _all_?”

“This is different,” Marcus said and did not meet her doubting eye as he said. “He is surprising, I will grant you, but he is not evil.” Here he reiterated the main points of Esca’s life, how it was his father’s work and he does little more than uphold a façade. He launched eagerly into the details of their current work to clean up the business, desperate to prove that he was not a silly dolt for staying.

He could hear how fraught his voice had become but could do nothing about it. As he spoke, Harriet’s compassionate heart brought tears to her eyes, but she did not release Marcus’ hand. He felt his heart throb for her worries, and he promised, “I love him, Mother. And he loves me. He _needs_ me. As I need him.”

“And that terrifies me, Marcus. I see myself in you; I was in this place once. Your father. I married him—so hopelessly in love—and next thing, it seemed, he was seeing other women in the city. What could I do? I had vowed my whole self to him, and I believed it when he said that the others meant nothing. He said it so well, you can imagine. So I looked the other way. For years, Marcus, I believed him when he said he loved us above all others. And then—“ her face twisted into an ugly wrench of pain but she stood, turning away, pressing a hand to her mouth and going to the mantel.

And then he left her with no home, no money, a child—so that he could marry another, a girl he loved _more_ than them.

Marcus’ blood ran cold. He had never before considered that his mother and father might have, once, been as happily in love as he and Esca. Through the years of his abandonment Marcus had always assumed that it must have been a loveless marriage; otherwise it would have been impossible for his father to fall in love with another.

He attempted to swallow, but his mouth was too dry. A horrifying thought occurred to him. Maybe love was never certain…

 _Father in Heaven, if our love is not certain, what is_?

At the sound of Marcus crying openly, Harriet returned to him. “Your uncle has been promising me that your love is not misplaced.”

 _It is not_ , Marcus’s heart thumped loudly, but could not be heard, _It is not. It is real. It will last…. It has to last. It must._

“In all the years I have known your uncle he has yet to be wrong on these matters. Do not tell him I said so—but it is true.”

This prompted a slight tug in the corner of Marcus’ mouth despite his distress.

“I have spoken my peace on the subject, but perhaps it will not hurt to, for now, defer to your uncle’s opinion. If you are sure, and if he is sure, I will allow your husband a second chance.”

Relief flooded Marcus head to toe, and he nodded fiercely, “He will not let us down. He is _determined_ to better himself.”

“I do have one condition: _promise me_ that you will think of Alice from time to time. You will do what is best for my granddaughter—even if it means leaving the insufferable man.”

In a sudden flare of loyalty, Marcus snatched his hand back. “Do not talk about him so!”

“Marcus—“

“I mean it, Mother, do not. I cannot bear it. You know better than anyone the risk in trusting a man, but Esca is better than my father. And he _will_ prove it to us.”

“Promise me you will think of yourself and Alice,” she said again, calmly, unmoved by Marcus’ declarations.

“Yes, alright. I promise. But I already am thinking of Alice by staying. She needs a loving papa. She will find no one better than Esca for that role, I can promise you that. He is the most loving man on earth.”

Tears sprang afresh as in a flash he was sure of his husband once more. Marcus sniffed, “Yes, he has made mistakes. Yes, he has delivered threats to men who owe us money, has ordered attacks on men who dare to cheat us, but that is over. It was but a duty to his father. An act. It was no more true to his character than all my years in the military were true to mine. He has repented, Mother. If you would but speak to him, allow him to warm up to you so that he may speak his mind without fear, you will see that he is a man of his word. He is kind. And patient. His bravery and intelligence will astound you. He will make you laugh.”

He could tell by her face that he had almost convinced her. At length she sighed and with a kerchief dabbed at her wet cheeks, “Be careful?”

“Of course.” Marcus kissed her cheek. “But rest your fears, Mother. Time will prove that I am right.”

“It is in my prayers that you are.”

“Now,” Marcus cleared his throat with a hock that was quite unseemly, but given the nature of the moment, he was forgiven. “Let us discuss something else, anything else.”

Harriet at once launched into her latest happy news,

“Eliza has sent me such a long letter about her new home in the Caribbean.”

Marcus traded his mother’s cracked saucer with his own and poured the tea, pretending to give a damn about the woman who had tormented him at his most vulnerable state. He found that it was easier with the knowledge that he would never set eyes on her again. Harriet found the descriptions of the foreign land so interesting that Marcus easily veered the conversation into his own travels, and he regaled her with the images of deserts that looked like oceans with their wavy dunes of sand and burned like fire as the sun set.

Talk of Alice’s health and her future, and taking turns holding her, swallowed another couple of hours so that before Marcus knew it, Harriet had to be off again, unable to stay for dinner as she had a prior engagement to dine with friends and brag about Alice. Marcus kissed his mother’s cheek as he sent her away, and then he saw about dinner and began to wonder when on earth Esca would come inside.

As if his thoughts were a siren’s call, Esca stepped into the house minutes later, glowing from the exercise of a hard ride and a hasty dash past the goose outside. He laughed joyfully when he saw Marcus, and Marcus echoed it, sharing the elation that was the sudden realization that love was physical, in reach, and not just a daydream.

They rushed into one another’s arms and shared a kiss that slipped into a deep, hungry bite. Marcus’ breath left his body and his heart beat in his throat. “That poor horse. She was in labor all this time?”

“Yes. But the foal is birthed at last, and it is a boy. Red with a white mane. Gorgeous.”

“I wish I had gone with you after all. I have spent the day with my mother.”

Esca laughed. “But you had a pleasant time I am sure.”

“For the most part…yes…” Marcus said, troubled. “But that woman has the singular ability to get inside my head and make me doubt everything about myself.”

The radiant happiness of Esca’s expression crashed into moody darkness, “She doubts me.”

“She is jaded from my father.”

“I must speak with her,” Esca resolved. He noted Marcus’ distress on the matter and paused to take his face into his hands, “You do not have to pick a side between your mother and your husband, Marcus. Whatever she said I am sure she only wished to help you. I would have it no other way. But I will speak with her. She deserves my apologies.”

“She has gone for the day,” Marcus said, holding Esca fast when he made to break away in search of the woman. “She and Uncle have a prior engagement with the Cobbs so she did not stay for dinner.” It pleased Marcus that Esca instantly relaxed back into his embrace. He breathed him in and tried to quell the doubt his mother had stirred in him.

“We have an hour yet before it is served. I just know I will feel better about it all if you come upstairs with me for a little chat.”

“A little chat?” Esca snickered at the euphemism, pulling away enough to look up at him, eyes glittering. “It will not be a nap?”

“No. A chat. We will exchange… _words_ …”

Esca’s smile was crooked. “I do not think we will _exchange_ much, exactly. But I will give you peace of mind, my love, happily.”

Marcus led his husband to his bedroom with every intention of taking the nobleman's cock inside himself and feeling complete at last, feeling as loved as he had sworn to his mother that he was. Esca’s lips on his skin, his hands roving over his body, his cock filling him up—that was the only way to feel the extent of what was in their hearts. The only way.

“Take me,” Marcus begged weakly as Esca’s hand stroked him so fluidly that he felt himself falling apart already, barely a minute in—they were still fully clothed, and on top of the blankets. He crawled backwards for the pillows, clawed the blankets down, started to wriggle out of his trousers. “Let me feel how much you love me. Tell me—without words. Tell me how much—oh…”

Esca squeezed him, slowing the stroke from base to tip so that Marcus’ spine trembled and his breath stuttered.

“Without words?” Esca chuckled, his fist worked faster once more and he held his lips just out of kissing range before Marcus’ mouth, “I know what you ask, but dearest, I will not. Not yet.”

“Esca—“

“The only way to encompass my love for you, Marcus, is to prove that by it I can do all things.” Esca smiled warmly and kissed him as he swept a thumb over his slick head back and forth and back and forth, “I can be the man you need. I can deserve you. I _can_. I will! _Marcus_ , _I swear to God, I will prove it to you_!”

Choked on the swamp of sensation that ripped from his bones and tingled across his skin, a lurching wave of acute pleasure, Marcus finished before his trousers made it past the knee. He collapsed against the bed panting and already sad that it was over. But he was suddenly glad that he had ran out of time to convince Esca to do anything more, for his words resonated inside of Marcus. _I can be the man you need. I can. I will_ …

Marcus’ eyes stung with tears of joy, for in another flash of clarity he understood Esca’s purge to be about earning the right for the ecstasy that Marcus craved. Had he surrendered to Marcus’ greedy whim just now they would have both been cheated, for Esca would not be the man Marcus had insisted to Harriet that he was: a man of his word.

“Thank you,” Marcus sniffed wetly, giving a wobbly smile in the direction of Esca’s blurry outline.

Esca kissed him sweetly, wiping his hand on the sheet and cleaning Marcus up. The mother man blinked away the oncoming tears before they fell, and watched Esca in wonder. Such strength. No one—no one, ever—could match his husband in fortitude. He had said he would abstain for now, and he had not yet given in even when so many others would have.

With one last kiss to his lips, Esca winked and smirked, and departed for Harriet’s townhouse with the evening light of the window burning bronze in his hair.

|||||

Umbrella Manor stood on a cliff overlooking the moors as a lighthouse stands guard at the edge of the ocean; mysterious and most likely haunted.

Marcus eyed the bold imposing lines, the wide windows, expensive drapery, and the life-like statues of nude figures from the classics, the vaulted painted ceiling. "This was almost yours."

Esca grinned at him "Most of this became mine anyway, Marcus. He has a terrible gambling habit, remember." With a motion of his hand about the place he said "I agree to allow my things to remain here to help him keep pretenses. But whatever you like for our home I shall make arrangements forthwith."

Marcus huffed in disbelief. Just then a tall skinny man entered the hall walking briskly and smiling, "Esca, so good to see you. And you’ve brought the infamous fellow. Captain, pleasure to make your acquaintance."

So few men were taller than Marcus, he found it strange to look up to meet his eye as they shook hands. Mycroft gave Marcus’ knuckles a loving pat and then said, “Might I ask after my lovely brother Fortunate Watson?”

Marcus recalled Sherly’s declaration that they had not clapped eyes on one another since his disownment, rapid wedding, and subsequent childbirth, but could think of nothing to say to the misplaced inquiry. Mycroft explained, “He refuses to come here for a visit, and the notion of going there…” he grimaced. “He is in good health, I presume?”

“Yes. Top form.”

“Excellent. I trust you have been keeping him more or less in line, Captain?”

“I had been before Alice. But I am afraid now I have become far too busy to be of any use to friends in the village.”

“Amusing,” the gentleman said with a tight, humorless grin. Marcus knew at once that he and Esca had already outstayed their host’s hospitality, and silently thanked God that Esca was never _this_ bad a recluse.

“Holmes, we won’t stay long.” Esca said, cutting straight to business. “There is only a favor I want to ask of you regarding the structure of payment we’ve agreed upon.”

“This way, I have tea prepared. Marcus, you drink chamomile do you not?”

Marcus glanced at Esca. How did he know that? Esca grinned and said lowly, “Sherly learned it from someone, my dear.”

Marcus huffed lightly, suppressing a shudder. He did not like meeting a stranger that already knew his life and the details of his day. To his host’s back, he said, “Yes, thank you, sir.”

The room they entered was imperious and cold. Marcus eyed the suits of armor and the portraits of ancestors. The entire place lacked the lovely touch, and so Marcus’ heart went to the bachelor even as his mind surged on the puzzle of who to match him with. Fortunate Hiddleston? But then, he was rather tall… Perhaps Levitt?

“Before we get into the money talk, I would like to ask a favor of my own, if I may.” Mycroft was saying, “When this hound business is over, Captain, your hours will become your own again, at which time I hope you might endeavor to deliver news of Sherly from time to time. You needn’t come all the way out here, a letter occasionally should suffice.”

“He does not answer your letters?”

“I do not trust a word he writes. I would much prefer an outsider’s opinion of him.”

Esca laughed lightly, replying, “Marcus can surely handle that, couldn’t you my dear? To ease his worries?”

“I would be happy to help.” Marcus agreed.

“Excellent. Do sit…..You must think me terribly strange, Captain. One of your personality who feeds on the energies of large crowds, the noise, the _people_.”

“You do not need to tell me how weary it is out there,” Esca said in a drone Marcus had heard little of in his marriage. The nobleman looked dark and irritated with the world as if he had drowned in one of the fleeting expressions seen only during elegant balls and dinner parties. “I have suffered countless parties since marrying. I tell you if it had been anyone but Marcus, I would not think it worth the time and energy.”

“Romantic of you to brave them, I am sure.”

“If Society or any crowd at all so disturbs you, how is it that you manage to get to the races every week?” Marcus dared to ask. Smiles stretched both men’s faces.

“I have a private viewing box of course,” Mycroft replied as if Marcus had asked a silly question. Esca caught his eye and winked reassuringly. Marcus grinned. “Then it seems you and I gamble for entirely different reasons.”

Mycroft hummed, eyes resting on Marcus’ chin where the scar could be found, as he said, “Yes. Cards and socializing were never my forte. I much prefer isolation and the powers of the track.”

“Nothing is more beautiful than a running horse,” Esca agreed.

As the conversation veered sharply into horse talk, Marcus thought of Lestrade and realized that Esca had friends secreted away in his everyday life, ranging from the loyal staff of the house to the gentleman flanking him in society’s list of the most eligible. These were not merely faces that Esca put on the act for, but companions he looked forward to seeing.

Marcus grinned, suddenly clear on the bases of the friendship in front of him and almost marriage in the past, as Mycroft hummed in approval. “Sir Charles is a masterpiece. You should be quite proud of him, Marcus. The most breathtaking mother male I have seen in many years—and dependable too. I have yet to lose money on Charlie.”

Esca groaned. “You can enjoy watching them run without placing bets, Mycroft.”

“So you say every time we meet. But I cannot help myself. It is always _so obvious_ which horse is going to win. More of it depends on the jokey than people realize.”

“It was not that obvious last October.” Esca said significantly. Mycroft darkened and sipped his tea,

“We all have our bad days.”

“And if not for my generosity, you would be homeless.”

“I have not forgotten, believe me.”

“Then we are in agreement that you owe me a personal favor.”

“As unfair as it seems, yes.”

“I have only ever asked but one thing from you, Mycroft. And since you were never called to act on that promise, it frees me to ask this instead: agree to my new interest rate and never, ever, ask me to loan you money ever again.”

“Surely that promise was made to a beautiful boy I had thought to marry. As you are no longer such a thing, the sentiment would be entirely out of place.”

“Then promise me,” Marcus said with his sweetest smile. He had meant to play this card regardless, but here in the moment, it did not feel like such a bold face lie. There was something about this man that begged to be loved, and that called to the people pleaser inside of Marcus. “I feel for sure had we met before Esca proposed I would have been torn between my options.”

Esca’s head turned to survey Marcus closely, but Marcus did not look at his husband, too shy to let him see the sincerity in his expression. Across the tea set, Mycroft blushed. “My! What a flatterer. I shall pretend I believe you. Yes, alright. You have my word that I will bother you no more with this ugly business.”

“And I shall promise to keep you informed of your brother’s habits.”

“And I will not be a stranger, Mycroft,” Esca said, standing to offer his hand in a farewell shake. Marcus glanced at the clock and saw they had been here barely over half the hour, but the relief to hear that they were leaving released the tension in Mycroft’s shoulders significantly, and he smiled a true smile once again.

As the gentlemen shook hands, Esca said jovially, “You will be always welcome at the house, too.”

Mycroft grimaced as if Esca had said he would be welcome in an open grave. Grinning affectionately at the loner, Marcus forced himself to stand up and follow Esca out of the large, lonely house. The door shut soundly behind them.

“I see how it is, Marcus,” Esca teased as they waited for the carriage. “You forbid me to flirt with him, and then you do just the thing.”

“Forgive me, dear. You know how it pleases me to please others. He is such an unhappy man. I would have been drawn to him, easily devoted to cheering him up for the rest of our lives.”

“The terrible part is, that is one of the reasons why I would have married him too. Poor gent.”

“I thought Hiddleston might be good for him, what do you think?”

Esca barked with laughter. “Tommy Hiddleston? If you say so, love. I shudder to imagine how you will orchestrate it.”

“You shall have to watch and learn, dear husband.”

“Mycroft has his friends. I do not think he wants anything else.”

“Except perhaps his brother.”

“You _will_ write to him regularly, won’t you?”

“Upon my honor. How else am I to talk up Hiddleston to him?”

Esca snickered.

**||||||||||**

“Hamish, my sweet, you are getting on Sammy’s nerves,” Sherlock said in a sweet voice, dashing his cigar ash to the wind before helping the child into his lap. The boy had only wanted up to be closer to the perambulator where Alice was playing with her favorite rattle. She was big enough now to sit up on her own and the two children seemed to enjoy each other greatly. Hamish certainly could not leave her alone for five minutes at a time.

“He is just jealous,” Marcus said, having noted that he had begun to act younger and sweeter than ever in order to have his summy hold him as often as Alice was held and cooed at.

“Or maybe he is in love,” Cillian teased, tickling Hamish.

The group sat in the garden, enjoying the fresh air that was finally warm enough to be pleasant. Spring had finally gotten its claws into the year, but it was such a brief window; it would not be long now before summer took over and brought with it the one year anniversary to the Marcus’ marriage.

One year already, good God where did the time go?

Marcus’ breast were now completely gone, and some daily calisthenics had done away with most of the softness in his midsection, but there remained a slight cushion on his hips which puffed over the tops of his trousers the way muffins come over a pan, which proved rather stubborn, and he cursed this extra weight now profusely to his friends.

“But surely Lord Esca does not mind the lingering evidence of your change.” Will said in that astute but delicate way of his that made him so indispensable to the group. At mention of his husband’s name, Marcus glowered and busied himself with the plate of muffins. Sherlock’s eyes narrowed and he said, “Unless he does and that is the reason behind today’s gathering and Marcus’ thinly veiled annoyance with the entire world.”

The truth froze Marcus in his seat and he sighed. Yes, it was true that he had summoned his friends to the house as a distraction. The short of it was that even though Marcus was returned to his manly state, Esca was _still_ Purging himself. The money was not yet collected, and the romantic idea was that their marriage would be renewed only with a clean slate to start from.

The reality of it was that they could not be in the same room together anymore without becoming so frustrated that they shouted about the silliest things. Usually such arguments ended with Marcus spilling into Esca’s hand, a sweet kiss or two, a renewal of Esca’s vow to deserve him.

And then, a week ago, Marcus—in a fit of stubborn pride, and sudden desire to be Esca’s equal--Marcus had vowed to abstain as well. Now neither of them could come until they had the money back.

Marcus cursed his own stupid, rash decision making process, but could not back out of his word now in the face of Esca’s tenacity. Now he was all too easily irritated by the delay of worthless, lying gamblers who promised to have the money by the end of the week and then, here at the end of the week, delivered nothing but excuses. Oh if they would but comprehend how very little patience he had left….He was fit to resort to violence after all, and that frightened him.

Indeed, Marcus feared what he would do if he had to live another week like this. How in the world did Esca manage it all this time? Marcus could not do it. Surely the safest thing to do would be to forget the romantic idea of a purge and simply resume the marital act, to maintain calm and clarity? He had asked this morning and an argument had separated them for the day.

“Is there turmoil in the marriage, Marcus?” Will asked, alarmed. He took the fortunate lord’s hand compassionately, still eager to return the favor of fixing a marriage. “Tell us: your dearest friends.”

“It is nothing but a little spat,” Marcus assured. “It was bound to happen now that we work together. It is silly really. A scheduling matter. Esca will come to his senses quite soon, I am sure of it.”

A grin tugged at the corners of his mouth as he thought of the tremble that had visibly rocked the nobleman when last they spoke, as Marcus pressed him against the bookshelf and watched the struggle happen in those beautiful grey eyes as Esca warred with himself. The only thing that had saved him was Guern entering the library to return a borrowed book. The doctor had felt Marcus’ ire most definitely and had made himself scarce for tea, much to Cillian’s chagrin.

“Scheduling?” Sherlock laughed, for it was indeed a ridiculous thing to argue about. He at once launched into a story of the silliest thing he and John ever argued over, and as they all shared similar stories the afternoon passed with rib cracking laughter that greatly altered Marcus’ mood for the better.

|||||||

Dew still sparkled on the grass as Marcus and Esca rode through the fields towards the edge of the estate the next morning. As his husband had explained it their neighbor and debtor, Mr. MacAvoy, was represented by his son James, who delivered the money every first of the month as faithfully as clockwork.

“MacAvoy is a dependable man, and has never given a moment of trouble.”

“Then why must we deal with him directly?” Marcus asked, still a little sour about having been made to devote part of his day to a task outside of the bedroom.

“I always deal with him directly,” came Esca’s easy answer, “It is never a chore like facing others in society. In fact, I consider him one of my only friends.”

With a hum, Marcus asked outright, “He is not one who hoped to marry you, too, is he?”

“No. I am fond of Mycroft, but MacAvoy is quite different. And that is his charm. He was the first that ever met _Mr._ Esca Cunoval, and shook my hand as if he had no doubt about my gender. He reminds me a great deal of Cradoc, too, with his philandering heart and scandalous reputation with the ladies.”

Marcus blinked, mind firing with a latent connection. “MacAvoy. My mother has made mention of him! Oh, but he ruined some poor girl called Hathaway, I think it was. These are the sorts you befriend, gamblers, thugs, and cads?”

“The sort I marry, too. Apparently,” Esca teased, horses coming near enough that their thighs brushed and Esca could reach out to trace the scar on his chin.

“Careful you don’t plant seeds of doubt in my head, or I will cause the most humiliating scene again. We won’t be lucky twice that you do not break your neck when I tackle you from a horse.”

Smiling merrily, unmoved by the threat, Esca assured, “Once you have met him, you will never consider the option, trust me. He is very much a brother to me.”

The border between Brigantes and Hadrian was marked by a stone wall at waist height that stretched from the forest to the road. Its crooked path through the field was occasionally shaded by one of a series of apple trees. At the sight of them Marcus was visited with a memory of Esca on the morning of the proposal. They had ridden the length of this wall and Esca had shared the story of how the dappled horse Marcus had chosen to ride had earned the name Appleseed as a young colt. It felt a lifetime ago and left Marcus grinning at how very little of Esca he had understood while believing he had the nobleman figured out.

Beneath the largest apple tree waited a grey horse and rider. As the lords approached at a leisurely trot the man released a bellow of greeting and waved. When they drew near enough for conversation Marcus saw that the man was scribbling in a book that went instantly to his inside pocket as if even the cover was too private to share.

His dark hair hung across his forehead nearly in his sky blue eyes. His nose and chin had a sharp quality about them and Marcus was sure that flatfooted on the ground he was no taller or broader than Esca. And like the nobleman he wore facial hair to dissuade any presumption of the fairer sex.

"I expected you to go flying by here two hours ago, my friend. I would ask what has kept you but I do not want to hear the answer." His voice had bravado, as if the slight man forced himself to speak in a lower register. Regardless, it was a pleasing sound and Marcus smiled at it.

"I will tell it anyway," Esca said superiorly, "We overslept and took breakfast in bed for I was not expecting you to meander over the hill for another hour yet."

Laughing and shaking his head, the handsome gentleman said, "I try to be punctual and this is my reward. How do you do?" He asked Marcus extending a gloved hand to shake with a pleasant albeit weary smile. "I wondered when I might meet the infamous fortunate captain."

"Are they still calling me that?"

"It is meant as a compliment now more than anything."

Marcus grinned at Esca pleased.

"Well James if you have pressing engagements elsewhere then do not let us dally. I can think of no other reason you would rise before the sun."

James grinned guiltily but full of charm. "You have found me out. I am on my way after this to bother Mycroft. The bastard has been ignoring my letters and I have to check that he is still alive."

Amused and suddenly certain that this charming individual was the glue to the brooding only club that recluses like Esca and Mycroft could claim, Esca chortled. It meant instantly that he and MacAvoy were kindred spirits, always happy to bring people together. "He was in good health when we saw him a month ago."

" _You_ went to Umbrella?"

"Marcus had not seen the place nor met him." Esca shrugged, attempting to act as if he frequently made social calls.

James laughed heartily for several minutes, blue eyes dancing with merriment. "Oh good lord. _Two_ guests at Umbrella. I wish I could have seen his face!"

"I found him fairly agreeable...considering." Marcus said in the man's defense. "Do say hello for us when you stop in."

"I shall f'ord. And now for the morning's purpose. Shall we get the worst over with quickly?”

Marcus fully expected the gentleman to present a pouch of gold and for them to be on their way, but the pair of men grinned at each other and dismounted their horses. They stripped away their coats and rolled up their sleeves, asking one another mysterious questions like, “Have you been practicing?” and “how is that left shoulder?”

Marcus laughed and demanded what was happening as Esca untied his cravat and whipped it playfully into Marcus’ face.

“It is an on-going tournament.” MacAvoy explained.

“A duel of honor.” Esca corrected.

“A boxing match that I _always_ win.”

“But not today.”

“Your audience will not improve your footwork, my friend.”

“Marcus, my love, kiss me for good luck.”

The mother man leaned down and planted a firm kiss to Esca’s lips, whispering while he was near, “Be good.”

Esca winked and then the gentlemen shook hands before commencing the match. They circled one another. MacAvoy took the first jab, and Esca dodged it swiftly, delivering a combination that the neighbor had to retreat from, laughing and congratulating the form, then calling out to Marcus, “That must have been one hell of a kiss! But watch this!”

With a rapid series of combinations and impressive footwork, MacAvoy pushed Esca back, delivering several impressive body-shots that made Marcus cringed and cry out. Worried for him, Marcus called to his husband, “ _Get him, darling_!”

Esca laughed and surged. MacAvoy swore under his breath as Esca brought the attack, backing him against the wall. They were indeed brothers, laughing and calling one another names as their equal skills and inherent understanding of one another’s technique prevented any sort of instant triumph to either opponent.

Then, quite out of nowhere, Esca roared, eyes ablaze, and delivered the first hit to the face. Down Macavoy went, blood spurting from his nose. He landed flat on his back, and Marcus cried out in alarm. Before he was off the horse, however, MacAvoy lifted himself to a sitting position, laughing and spitting blood. “Good lord, man, where did that rage come from?”

Relieved to find the kind man awake and smiling, Marcus whirled to face the winner, who was panting and shaking out his knuckles. “You were stupendous darling!”

They shared a distracted kiss before the nobleman pulled away to address his friend. “I am terribly sorry,” Esca said sincerely, digging forth a kerchief from his pocket. “That was a cheap shot. Are you well?”

“I shall be. It is already stopping, I believe,” MacAvoy said, his head tilted backwards, fingers plugging the holes. He sniffed experimentally, and then laughed some more. “Remind me never to fight you again when you have an audience to impress.”

“But we said no face shots. It should be disqualified.”

“But it was a clever move. His guard was down. You took your chance to end the fight,” Marcus said.

“Indeed,” MacAvoy agreed.

“Will you come to the house and let Guern see your nose?”

“It is not broken. Here, to the victor.” At last, the pouch of gold came forth. Esca accepted the payment, and did not even count it before pocketing it with a chirped, “Thank you, sir.”

“Same time same place?”

“Only if you bother her again.”

“Next time, then.” MacAvoy said with a wicked grin. He kicked his horse into a gallop and rode away over the hill. Marcus’ brow creased. “Bother who?”

“Cottia. We told you it was a duel for honor.”

“ _Cottia_?”

“As her protector it is my duty to challenge men who will use her and not marry her. Do not look so alarmed, Marcus. Trust me, as Cottia puts it, she  _wants_ to be used and I cannot stop her. This continuous duel is only my way of allowing it.”

Marcus caressed Esca’s ear, heart throbbing for the goodness of him. “How are your ribs? Would you like to lie down?”

“Perhaps until tea. Where have the horses gone?” Esca whistled, summoning the beasts, and they returned to the house.

|||||||||||||

When one has spent a considerable amount of time on one project, it is a queer feeling to one day find that it is utterly complete; nothing can be added or subtracted from it. The feeling settled over Marcus that very evening as he cleaned up the scrap materials and tools that had been scattered over his desk these many months. He did so to keep his hands busy, for otherwise they wanted to flip endlessly through the ages of the old man’s finished biography.

It was a fine volume; sturdy with clean lines and tidy penmanship. He was quite possibly the proudest he had ever been and could not wait to show it off. Once his work station was neatly arranged, he carried the gift straight across the hall to the old man’s sick room but found him too ill for a proper visit. Marcus sat by the bed anyway, the book on his knees, his hands clasped around his father-in-law’s wrinkled, boney fingers.

The old man slept fitfully, twitching and muttering to himself, wheezing, and coughing periodically. He seemed so uncomfortable with no hope of finding comfort again….at least not on this earth. Marcus’ heart hurt for him, for the man could not even be comforted spiritually by any news that his past was put to rest, for the money was still missing, and several debtors had taken unexpected trips, likely to never be seen again. Thor and Eames had been sent to locate them, but Marcus had his doubts.

His guts twisted when he dwelt upon it; how all of this hard work and all of the terrible threats they had delivered these last months would all be for nothing if the money was not returned, for then word would surely spread that they had only been bluffing…and then they would never succeed…

These dark thoughts had Marcus’ face set into a deep frown when Old Cunoval suddenly jerked awake, gasping, “No!”

Marcus squeezed his hand. “You were dreaming, sir. All is well.”

“Where am I?”

“Home, sir. I am Marcus. Your fortunate son in law. I married Esca last summer. We’ve a daughter called Alice.”

“Oh yes….yes, that is right….oh….Alice…my Alice…I watched her die. And I was helpless. And it was my fault. It was all my fault!”

“Sshhh, shhh,” Marcus said desperately. “Never mind all of that. Never mind it now.”

“What level of hell do you think a man with the blood of his family on his hands goes to, eh?”

“Now, enough of that. You are going straight to heaven.”

“Ha! You don’t even know the half of it, sa’am, not even the beginning of it!”

“I do. Esca told me everything. And I still don’t think you are going to hell. Jesus died even for you, sir.”

“You are a good boy, sa’am. A good boy. You deserve a better family than this rotten lot. I ought to have a word with your uncle for his letting you marrying my son. He should have known better.”

“Quiet, you. I belong with Esca, and he with me.”

“Maybe, but I wish it was different for you. I wish I had never inherited this title, or bought the race track…Would have still married Alice, would have stayed friends with Aquila, would have married you boys off together anyway…..didn’t need the greed, didn’t need the bloodshed….just got lost…got lost and lost everything….”

Choking on his repressed tears, Marcus struggled to present a strong face to the miserable hound. He reached blindly and rang the bell to summon the nurse, and then pressed a kiss to the man’s bald head. “I love you, sir. Rest yourself and worry not. Love gets us all into heaven.”

The old man continued to weep as if he heard nothing. Gasping, Marcus wiped his own tears away and limped from the room with the book under one arm. He could not present it now, with the man so upset. Perhaps tomorrow would break with a happier outlook from him, and the boys would return with the missing funds, and the day would be worry free….

And perhaps a unicorn would show up.

Marcus sighed wearily as he stowed the book safely within a drawer at his work station and heard Esca clear his throat in the next room. Everything that had been weighed down inside of him inflated and rose like a hot air balloon. Esca was home!

“Dearest love of my life,” Marcus called, entering the sitting room at a brisk limp. Esc, sitting forlornly in a chair, lifted his eyes and one corner of his mouth to Marcus as he entered, but said nothing.

“You look so pensive,” Marcus whispered to the nobleman when he had reached his side. He ran the blade of his finger along his side burn, and Esca grinned up at him, then let lose a heavy breath. “I am bewildered,” he confessed. “I was in the hall just now as you spoke to my father, I heard it all. How could I have not realized that he wished the hound to die? How could I have been so callous as to assume…I believed the worst in him and it leaves behind an unpleasant taste in my mouth.”

“Sssh, do not be so hard on yourself, darling. What other conclusion could you have drawn when you know what lengths he went to in the name of the hound? When he insulted you for suggesting an end to it after his health declined?”

“I knew their deaths and his revenge fractured his mind. I did not stop to consider that he knew it as well…I am so grateful that we have you, Marcus, and that you could see what needed done. Without you I would have become a son that my father fears and regrets rather than loves and respects.”

With a wide grin, Marcus accepted the thank you as graciously as he knew how. With light fingertips, he brushed Esca’s hair behind one of those large ears and said lowly, “I am going to bed. You may come up when you wish…”

Marcus was not yet out of the room before Esca was suddenly behind him, sliding his hand into Marcus’, slotting their fingers together for the walk up the stairs.

**||||||||||**

With the moonlight bright upon the bed enough for Marcus too see everything in the room, sleep could not be had. His length had risen expectantly and no matter how he turned his thoughts, it would not fade. In his best efforts to keep his hands above the waist, he shifted around too much, and alerted Esca, who jumped awake, looked around, and smirked. “I told you that you would be unable to abstain.”

“I shall, however. Just ignore it. It will go away.”

“Darling love, let me…” he slid closer like liquid beneath the blankets and had Marcus in hand before he could object.

He gulped loudly. “No. Let me suffer with you, dearest. Please.”

Esca snorted just as he had when Marcus had first announced that he too would abstain. “You have no reason to suffer. It was I would lied and kept this family in danger when I should have protected you. You have done nothing wrong.”

“I lied. And I was unfaithful to you.”

“You cannot have been unfaithful to a man you had never met. And you lied to protect your daughter; a noble excuse if there ever was one. My lies did nothing to protect you, for they were endangering you more every day.”

Tears slipped out of Marcus’ eyes, and Esca caught them on the pad of his thumb, grinning softly. “The period between your moods is lengthening. I do not think you have been overwhelmed in three days. The last time was over the needle and thread, remember?”

Marcus did remember, and he had dared hope that that tantrum had been his last silly upheaval, but alas, the moods were not finished playing yet. He attempted to chuckle, but it was a wet sound and the tears rushed harder. Esca kissed them away, his hand moving slow and steady on Marcus’ arousal. The tears were tied so closely to it that the harder he became, the more tears he cried. “But I belonged to you even then, Esca. We didn’t know it, but I did. And I gave myself away to first man that offered when I should have waited. Should have waited for you…”

Esca hummed in disagreement. “Do not forget that it was Alice that brought you here. We would not have found each other if not for your romance with the prince. Thank God for it, Marcus. I do. Every day.”

“Truly?”

“Every single day.”

Marcus shuddered and whimpered, praising all heavenly powers that brought them together. He opened his knees and attempted to get Esca between them.

"Marcus," Esca warned. Marcus sniffed, grinning wickedly as he began to pull at Esca’s clothes. The nobleman tutted and refused to lose his shirt. Marcus groaned.

"You swore to give me everything. Will you not give me your cock?"

"Soon, Treasure,” Esca said, amused by this turn of mood into the lustrous and perhaps relieved that it had not taken a sour turn for anger as his tears often did. He kissed Marcus’ pouting lips. “Soon. Your breasts have gone. It shan't be long before your cycles return along with your more reliable urges. By then we will have word from the boys in London and have a better idea of where we stand with the collection. If there is money to recover, they will recover it. If there is not, then we shall know soon enough and we will eat the loss, and if you still want me then I will never deny you the extent of my love ever again."

"Of course I will still want you. I can’t live without you. But, Esca, you have punished yourself enough--" Marcus’ words stopped in his throat, for he had lifted his hips to feel his husband’s arousal and his stomach plummeted at what he did not find.

"But I have not _proven_ myself,” Esca was saying, “I will have it that you, your mother, you uncle, our daughter--the _world_ —will know with no uncertainties that I can and will keep my word, and that I will always control myself when it matters, and that I shall never, ever knowingly disappoint you again."

Marcus could not breathe air into his constricting lungs. "You knowingly disappoint me now. I have told you what I want yet you refuse me." Unbidden, a great rush of fresh tears burned across his vision and his lip wobbled. All he could think of was that Esca did not want him, no longer desired him. It must be that he had changed back. He had a man's body again. That was it. Esca, who came alive when near women or boys in dresses, did not want this fat, ugly mannish body. And so it was tumbling from his lips as suddenly and quickly as the tears from his eyes, "have I become so unattractive that you cannot even get it up?"

Bewildered, Esca looked down at his own lap and then, smirking and moving in to hold Marcus he said, "That is not it at all. Not at all… Oh, jewel. No. I have only become accustomed to withholding. My body has learned not to expect anything. That is all. Believe me I still can't get enough of you."

"Truly?"

"Truly.”

“But to not even be aroused—“

“It is the way of absolute chastity. I have not come even once. At first I was fit to burst at the slightest inclination, but now I am not so easily stirred. Did you not suffer this yourself in all those years in the militia?”

Marcus shook his head and Esca’s eyes flashed. “You’ve never gone too long without pleasure, then. You took care of yourself frequently?"

"Almost nightly."

Esca's laugh was half a purr and half a growl, "and did you suck on your fingers before pushing them in?"

"Sometimes. But I was usually in my barracks and did not wish to be too loud."

"Others were nearby as you pleasured yourself?"

"Often, yes."

"Marcus," he huffed. By now he was half hard and swelling quickly. Marcus pulled him close, thrilled by the reaction he had prompted from his lover. A bump of his hips brought friction to Esca's cock, and the man hissed and tensed but Marcus whispered quickly, "sometimes I would bite my arm to contain my sounds and have a mark the next day to remind me of it."

Esca melted against Marcus and instead of pulling away, he moved more with fervent thrusts. He groaned lowly as his hot member pumped against Marcus’, breaths soft puffs against his skin. Marcus' heart soared, and he knew that he would have never doubted if not for the distress of his Change: Esca desired him in return, with the same tremendous depth. Marcus simply could not help the silly things he felt, but he could certainly thank God for one who knew how to vanquish such nonsensical fears.

Marcus sank into the sensations, allowing each thrust from Esca’s hips, every slippery rub from his hot, dewy cock, spread itself through his changing body like paint dripped into water, billowing in stark plumes until the entire glass was saturated.

As he kissed his dear husband sweetly, giggling, his hand trailed towards Esca’s arousal once again but was caught by the wrist. The thrusting ceased once more, and Marcus’ desire began to pool in his belly. Esca looked down at him with a glint in his eyes, a crooked smile. He spoke as one surrendering to a very terrible idea. “I think I must. Yes, it has come to it at last.”

“Oh?” Marcus raised his knees higher, eagerness putting his heart in his throat. He reached again for Esca’s flesh, but with steely arms, he pinned Marcus’ rubbery muscles to the bed, laughing as he nodded his bed ruffled head. “Yes. It most _definitely_ has.” He looked around the dark room, muttering to himself, “What can I use…? Ah!”

Marcus lifted his head as much to stay near Esca’s lips as to see what in the world the man had stretched to the edge of the bed to retrieve, for the oil was on the other side. Breathless, and thinking of only one thing in all of existence, Marcus reached for the jar, slurring, “I have it, darling, ‘sover here.”

Esca glanced and then smirked. “Not that…What did I do with—ah! This. Perfect!” he had dragged a cravat out of the pile of discarded clothes and snapped it as one snaps a rope to test its strength. A boyish giggle bubbled out of him as he went to his knees. “Sit up.”

Marcus mirrored Esca, going up onto his knees. “Wha…this…darling…you are taking this whole thing too far!” Marcus cried allowing his wrists to be twisted to his lower back and bound there. When Esca had finished the knot, Marcus tested it, and found it was too tight to escape. Suddenly, he was a prisoner and that felt…exciting.

His heart thumped at the base of his throat and his stomach tightened, even as his cock pulsed and his breathes went shallow. Esca noted the reactions with a pleased smirk and gently groomed Marcus’ hair and growing beard. “There, now…” he kissed the corner of his mouth, “…Where were we?”

There was absolutely no way Marcus could reach Esca’s cock now, and he berated himself for allowing this to happen. (But in his defense, he had no idea a cravat could be so sturdy a material.) “You are a wicked man. What is this?”

“A game—I think I shall call it Keep Your Bloody Perfect Hands to Yourself, Marcus.”

Marcus laughed outright. “That is a silly name for a game.”

“But it outlines the premise well. You see, _something_ has to keep you in line while I undo you--Only if you would rather not, I will untie you.” he added quickly when Marcus struggled again against the tie of the cloth around his wrists. “The idea is to contain you, not to seriously trap you. Are you comfortable?”

Marcus considered saying no and being released, but his intrigue had been awakened, and now he had to know what Esca had in mind with this game. The mere fact that Esca had initiated such a thing (a _game_ , in _bed_!) had Marcus’ head spinning, his entire body trembling. And he continued to struggle only because he liked the way it felt to be so helpless here in the dark with Esca like this.

“I feel… safe…” Marcus whispered. Out loud, it sounded far too strange a thing to say. “Is that wrong?”

“I don’t think so. How can it be? You _are_ safe. You are _so safe_ , my love. So safe and so…so beautiful…and so perfect…” he kissed Marcus between each declaration, leaving hot spots along his neck and jaw. Esca was still gently combing his hair, occasionally raking light fingernails through his scruff. Each touch said it as loudly as it was gentle. _I love you, Marcus Cunoval_.

Marcus hummed happily. It didn’t feel like his hands were bound at all; more like somehow, Esca had neatly bound up everything else: his rampart, wild notions, the feeling of an endless, shapeless world full of too many possibilities. It was as if Esca had drawn a bold line across everything, given him a horizon by which to orient himself. The world made sense again, he could see what came next, and it made his thighs shake.

from behind, Esca’s hands roved over his bare body, lingering on those most sensitive and warmest tracks of skin that were now slick with oil and the beady drops of dew that Esca had coaxed out of him already. Marcus pressed back against him, fitting the hard, burning cock between his cheeks and thighs. He rolled his hips, doing his best to stimulate without hands. Esca chuckled, but continued to let his hands and lips roam freely without separating their bodies.

Marcus took that as permission to keep trying. He pushed back, wriggling his hips and tensing his thighs. He heard Esca’s breath catch and so he did it again and received a pinch to his nipple in retribution. Marcus gasped lightly, letting his head fall to one side with a moan that sounded slightly blasphemous. Esca echoed him lowly, leaving sound, wet kisses along his shoulder to his spine and down. Marcus bent willingly at the waist until his head rested on the bed, and Esca’s lips strayed lightly over his laced fingers, and then his bare cheeks.

He shuddered involuntarily as certain erotic things that Esca could do flickered through his mind. But they were mere ideas; he never would have truly entertained the notion for any more than that, only suddenly, the very thing was happening. Esca had read his reactions acutely, and followed the mindless prompt loyally so that—

“Darling!” Marcus gasped into the sheets, drooling slightly in his bewilderment. Esca’s lips were warm and lingering on his fundament, leaving real kisses there as if it were Marcus’ lips. The sensitivity of the muscle sent such sparks up Marcus’ spine that his voice mewled slightly as he gasped, “Oh Esca, that’s…”

Esca hummed against him and then Marcus’ head snapped up because he had been entered by his husband’s tongue and the slick protrusion prodded deliberately against the spot that made Marcus let loose a shaky scream, burry his face in the sheets and pant, “God, oh _God_.”

It was part of a real prayer—for he was infinitely glad that his mother had taken the pains to teach him about a fortunate’s specific need for hygiene, and that it had somehow stuck with him despite his decision to live as a man (for it had always been a practical way to better monitor his cycles) because had he been at all neglectful on that front then this would not be happening.

Esca hummed as if he tasted good.

Panting, choking, and crying, Marcus writhed against Esca’s flicking tongue, fighting the ties at his wrists that kept him from taking himself in hand. His cock twitched and leaked and his thighs shuddered. Esca stretched him with hard licks and toyed lightly with his balls before closing a sure fist around him and pulling such pleasure out of Marcus’ bones that he screamed again, coming in a hot torrent that made his skin ripple with fresh tight peeks of goose pimples.

“I have never…” Marcus stated weakly, laughing deliriously. “…ever…”

Esca loosened the knot, but he was too overthrown to do anything except stretch his arms wide across the bed and lay there with his heart fluttering against the mattress.

“How is that for abstaining, hm?”

“You bastard. I was attempting to be fair. I do not understand how you have gone this long… In fact, I hardly believe it. You have been catering to yourself in private haven’t you? It is the only explanation.”

“No. The only explanation is that it is easy to abstain when one is so sick of oneself at present that one cannot be inspired unless you are near, and when you are near I am as determined as ever to be who I am meant to be.”

“Darling…”

“See, even now as I think on what I have done, I am less motivated. Perhaps you should meditate on what a monster I have been when you think you cannot survive without me another minute. It is what I do if I am restless before sleep.”

“I mus’fess ‘m glad to hear it,” Marcus slurred, blinking sleep heavy eyes.

“Hm?” Esca asked, amused.

Marcus woke himself up to explain drearily, “It thrills me incalculably that you would even make the vow for me, let alone that you would hold to it. You are so good, Esca. So good.” He laughed here at himself, eyes dropping closed as slept crept closer. “I abstained only a week and was fit to kill a man. It has had me dreadfully worried what you might do if you are stretched another day without it…but if what you say is true then you are truly more good than bad, and have not been left pining like I have been. You have been more… _uninspired_ than denied.”

The word _uninspired_ made Esca lose his breath, but then he allowed a crooked grin. “Now, I told you there was no sense in you Purging yourself, and I am glad that you abandoned the idea so swiftly, else we would have wound up with blood on our hands anyway, and for a terribly stupid reason.”

Marcus rumbled with laughter until the sleep that had been wrapping itself around him finally closed its cocoon.


	23. Farewell to the Old

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warning: minor character death

When Marcus woke the next morning, he found a warm breakfast waiting and Esca sketching. He snorted and sat up to have a look at what could not be too arresting of a sight—he no longer had breasts to display, and the sheet covered everything else, after all.

The mostly finished drawing would be the tamest of the collection; it was only Marcus’ head resting upon a pillow, his face serene but obscured partially by the wrist he had draped over his eyes, the one still bearing the knotted end of the cravat. Though not as wicked as some of the others, it still stirred things inside of the mother man for the memories it provoked. He grinned at Esca, who had a morsel of breakfast ready for Marcus to nibble from his fingers.

“I’m trying to watch my figure.”

“But I like to have something soft to squeeze.”

Marcus’ eyes flashed as he chewed and swallowed the bite. “Well, then sir you shall have to wait until I am changed again, and that will be a few years if you do not mind. I should like to be sane a while.”

“If you can manage it.”

“As if I could not. A close eye on the phases of the moon will keep everything in order for as long as I should wish it.”

“Then we shall have children entirely at your discretion. Come in, please,” Esca added at the sound of a knock upon the door. He smiled at Cottia and the papers enclosed with Lestrade’s seal that she handed off as she took away the breakfast tray (but only after Marcus had swiped all the fruit with a wink.)

Esca tore into the letters as Marcus ate.

“What does the good man say?” Marcus asked past the orange peel at his lips. Esca had begun to smile brightly.

“First of all, a fair bit of exciting news—Mycroft has won at the races a considerable amount that he has signed over in full to us.”

Marcus gasped, choking slightly on the citrus juice. “That is a surprise. I have never heard of a gambler doing such a thing!”

“It is not the gamble that he enjoys. He only enjoys being right and made the terrible mistake of putting his money where his mouth was. Now he has, by the grace of God, restored himself. I dare say he has learned his lesson there.”

“I am happy for him. He has indeed been blessed with a one in one million stroke of luck. I have known men who gambled away their entire lives on the mere promise of such a win, and there Mycroft has done it.”

“He shall say it is but a matter of some such science of logic.”

“My heart is racing with joy. Oh, but if every debtor could be as honor-bound and punctual as he.”

“There are few like him, indeed…” Esca agreed, opening a second letter. “Ah, Lestrade has news of Thor and Eames from London as well.” He scanned the new letter, gasping as he grabbed Marcus’ knee. “They have concluded business at last! Money collected _in full_ —there could not be better news this morning!”

Breathless, Marcus inquired, “Violence?”

“None mentioned,” Esca said, conceding the possibility that the loyal dogs drew blood more often than they let on—in their own names, not necessarily The Hound’s. Marcus had his suspicions as well, for the boys were fiercely loyal and possessed strong principles when it came to money deals, but as he and Esca could not keep an eye on their every movement and the methods were effective, little complaint could be made at this point. He sighed, and said a prayer that whatever tactics had been used had been executed thoroughly and with intelligence so that no retributions could be expected upon the Cunoval family.

“Have you the book, love? These names can be crossed off. It is a satisfying amount, too, on top of Mycroft’s winning. What pleasing news, indeed. Oh, thank heavens!”

Marcus had already retrieved their account book from the bedside table and as Esca read out who had paid, Marcus dashed through the names in the ledger. When the impressive list was complete, Esca put down the letters, and asked, smirking, “I’d say the boys certainly earned their stipend. Wouldn’t you? Well…how many is left now?”

A large smile had spread across Marcus’ face as he scanned the records, and his tongue felt too swollen for use, his breaths shallow in his chest. “Darling. There is only one.”

“One left?”

“ _One_!”

“Who is it?”

He gulped, attempting to read the name in a respectable volume as opposed to the shriek of excitement that wanted to come out of him. “MacAvoy.”

“MacAvoy! But he is a dependable payer!”

“The most of all I have seen.”

“And he is the last?”

“The last!”

They slotted together, papers and forgotten fruit crushed and lost beneath the blankets. Breathless, Marcus combed fingers through Esca’s hair as the man kissed his scruffy neck and bare collar bones. Ticklish there, he giggled lightly and with the trailing bit of cravat dangling from his wrist, Marcus playfully lassoed Esca’s neck and pulled him up for a real kiss. When it broke, he asked, shaking, “Is this the end of the hound?”

“Nearly,” Esca said, resuming a businesslike air though he was between Marcus’ knees. The book still at hand, he pulled it closer to rest on Marcus stomach and scanned the information. “MacAvoy still owes a considerable amount…his payments are steep as it is, I do not think we can increase anything… I say we are looking at five more months. Five months of regular payments, and then it shall be over.”

“ _Five months_? How can we speed up time?” Marcus whispered, mind filling in all the glorious colors of their second consummation. It could not be soon enough. “There must be a way.”

“Patience. And these five months will go by without alarm.”

“He is so dependable, perhaps we could call the business done and think of his payments as a separate matter altogether, hm? Then we could break your abstinence this very hour. What do you say?”

“Tempting, love, but no. That is cheating. Cutting corners. Rewriting my original vow. I will not have it.”

Marcus scoffed angrily, “You’re too good, sometimes. It’s exhausting.”

“Thank you.” Esca returned cheekily, prompting a laugh from Marcus that cut right through the center of his ire and eased him once more. Esca sighed in contentment, “His payment date is the first of every month. In the meantime, I should like to throw some sort of party for the boys. They have been so diligent these past months, they deserve some kind of honorable farewell.”

“Leave the party planning to me,” Marcus said. “It will have to be discreet. We have no reason to socially know them at all, let alone celebrate them. You do not think they will be offended?”

“Of course not. Any gathering with alcohol will appease them, I am sure.”

As he spoke, Esca got out of the bed with the energy of a man eager to fill his day with a long list of errands. Marcus understood the feeling as he too decided that keeping busy would indeed make the months speed past them. In a brilliant flash of inspiration, five months did indeed seem but a trifle.

||||

Eager to do away with those connected to the family the wrong way, Marcus arranged for the farewell party to occur the very next night. The henchmen came alone, as ever, and Esca paid them their dues. Then, in celebration, they lifted their glasses to each other and their ex-employers for a job well done.

As the men drank and commemorated their years of service to the house of Cunoval, Marcus could see that the men would miss the operation, and each other. They each, in their own way, confessed to liking Esca above all past employers and likely any future ones they might obtain. Eames and Thor were already talking of joining a new operation beginning in London, and Guern appreciated their invitation to join them and accepted only on the off chance that his plans here in the village fell through on the answer of one certain individual.

During these festivities, a man came to the house seeking help from the Hound. The gentleman knocked upon the door, asked to see his oldest friend Lord Cunoval, was denied passage like any of them were, and became angry, like some, but barged inside like none had dared before. The aged man was tall and had a bushy grey beard despite his bald, shiny head. His clothes spoke of money, but his accent hinted at something else as he declared loudly, “Tell old Cunoval Obidiah Stain is here to see him. He’ll let me in. Go on! Tell him!”

The servants stubbornly refused to budge, enraging the man further. With a large vein pulsing in his forehead, he shoved past the girl only to catch the knee of the butler who had arrived in the hall just in time. Esca and Marcus came upon the scene with Eames, Thor, and Guern who then helped escort the trespasser from the house.

“He says his name is Stain, sir. A good friend of your fathers,” the butler said, panting and straightening his jacket. Marcus straightened his collar for the man as Esca stiffened and growled, “Thank you, Coulson. If he ever trespasses again, you have my permission to shoot him.”

“Sir.”

Marcus breathed deeply to quell his worries. “That was close. Thank God our party was not ones ignorant of our schemes. If that man had ruined a tea party with the Unusuals, I would have had to do some fast thinking…”

Pale, Esca rubbed his forehead. “You are right…oh dear…I cannot think of an excuse for what such a violent scene could have been over besides money which would all but say in plain English that we are the Hound.”

Unable to think either, Marcus said instead, “But no one did see it. We are getting ahead of ourselves.”

“But he was not the first and he will certainly not be the last to drop in on us, Marcus. Drunkards the county over will come straight here to beg for money to get themselves out of scrapes, forgetting or not caring that it is no longer an enterprise that caters to them…”

“Darling…it will pass. It shall all pass.”

“My father has made himself a legend of England, Marcus, and I have perpetuated it. I do not think we will ever escape the hound…never fully…”

Uncle Aquila’s words about Esca’s war here in England returned to Marcus then, and so he drew a deep breath, considering their options. He rested a hand upon Esca’s neck. “Then we shall escape England.”

Esca’s eyebrows lifted. Marcus kissed him. “We will go abroad, board up the house. Disappear. In a year or so, the legend will have faded.”

Sputtering, the nobleman asked, “But where on earth would we go?”

“We will travel the world together. Anywhere you like… Arabia, even. Do you still like the idea of Arabia?”

“Leave Brigantes?” Esca looked around the old house, chest moving more rapidly than usual. “Cross oceans? Marcus, I….I don’t know.”

“You have never left your home. I understand how daunting the thought must be. But no matter where you go, you will always have us, my love. Me and our child; together our home can be anywhere.”

He looked at once hopeful and daunted. “It is a beautiful idea. Perhaps.”

“We will discuss it more another time, when you have had less to drink.”

Relieved, he squeezed Marcus' arm. “Yes. Good.”

||||||

Despite the looming threat that another drunkard would lay siege to the house in desperate hopes of speaking to the hound, Marcus could not keep his friends from visiting indefinitely, and so armed with a number of excuses he might possibly use in such an emergency, he resumed his place in the regular rotation of hosting the gatherings. Esca sat with his father while Marcus greeted the guests in the parlor.

“It has happened at last!” Sherlock said importantly as he entered the room. “We have happy news. Kitty?”

Cillian stepped forward with his left hand held forward, displaying a diamond ring.

Marcus gasped happily, having suspected the thing would happen after the party last night. “You are engaged at last!”

“Yes!”

“Oh, congratulations!” He hugged the lovely boy as tightly as he dared. “And so you are off?” he asked, feeling a hint of grey at the notion of giving his young friend to the traveling doctor.

“Back to Ireland,” the youth said, not hiding his eagerness to see his homeland again. “Lucius already has a position there as a town physician, and we will be closer to my family.”

Blinking back tears, Marcus swept Cillian into another hug. “Oh, I am going to miss you, little one! You must visit, both of you as often as affordable! What will Sherly and Will and I do without you?”

“Actually, it must be only you and I,” Sherlock said formally. “Will is leaving us too.”

Marcus’ jaw dropped. “He is? I haven’t heard anything!”

“I wasn’t supposed to say,” Sherlock remarked darkly.

The bearded fortunate clicked his tongue. “Yes, I had hoped to break the news far more gently than that.”

“Will, where on earth do you think you are going?” Marcus demanded. “Back to your family on the coast? Did you not see enough of them from your last visit?”

“Better. I am to sail with Norrington. I confess that was the nature of the visit. I enlisted.”

“Good heavens!”

“What brings this on?”

“We find that we cannot live apart for so long, and as I am able-bodied, I shan’t be in the way on the vessel. They permitted spouses to sail together.”

Marcus was breathless with a twang of sorrow at losing a friend harmonized with the thrum of pure excitement for him. “I am so happy for you, Will!”

“I will be sorry to leave my friends. Some of whom I have only just begun to know,” he said speaking of Esca and Guern. Then to Sherlock, “and others I cannot imagine leaving, but the sea calls.”

Sherlock huffed and shoved Will, looking away to hide his watery eyes.

It was a long night, filled with jokes about the engaged couple, the latest gossip and shameless tears as the oldest and truest friends parted ways forever. Marcus imbibed a considerable amount of alcohol as he had not done since his regiment days, forgetting to account for the many months he had been out of practice holding such an amount—the night ended with his friends sending themselves away so that Lord Esca and the butler could carry Marcus upstairs to bed.

Grumbling, and slurring his words beyond comprehension, Marcus was in a mood to dwell on the latest gossip, for it was both salacious and, for once, had nothing to do with them. “D’yooear’bout’Tomsy’n’Levts? They ranuff wideames’n’Thor—hahaha, who knew? Hahahaha!”

“Yes,” Esca said, hardly following but certain it had something to do with the stirring news of the double elopements. “Who could have guessed that?”

“NOT ME!” Marcus roared. “Hoomeye s’pose marry Mycroft to now, hm? Tomsy’s stolen, ‘nsnot fair. Tomsy was good for’im, d’nyoo think?”

“You need to sleep, my love. And I do not think you will feel very good in the morning.”

“Eyeful’yne’mornin!”

The light went out and Marcus hiccupped in his sleep.

            |           |           |           |           |

With only Sherlock by way of company, Marcus’ life changed once again with a drastic lurch like a fast traveling buggy crushing its wheel on a rock and throwing its passengers to their knees. It was not easy to manage a working companionship with Sherlock without the much-needed buffer of two mild-mannered friends. The door of 221b took the brunt of the tempests, as Marcus took to slamming it as hard as he could as he marched home in a huff, having lost an argument or been thrown out for winning one. By and by, and with the help of two tired but grinning husbands, the pair of hot-tempered fortunate men found an ebb-and-flow in their tolerance for one another to the point that one hot summer day the two families came together for tea with honest smiles of delight.

A day at the races was entirely overdue, and as Uncle needed to get out of the house, Marcus thought it a perfect occasion to group his entire family. Mother, having by the grace of God accepted Esca’s personally offered apologies, spent the entire race regaled by the nobleman’s natural charm with females as he explained the different important aspects of the race and which horse to root for. By the end of it, Marcus felt quite sure his mother was half in love with Esca as well.

Marcus surely was more in love than he had been that morning, merely at the accidental glimpse he had of Esca’s watery eyes and shallowed breath as the horses thundered around the beaten track, long legs stretching, manes flying, necks extended as they flew over the finish line. Horses truly moved the man’s spirit. It was so simple, so pure a thing to love that Marcus ached with happiness that his husband found such a joy in easy reach.

Sherlock, in the manner of his brother, boasted about having correctly guessed the winning horse, but having put no money on it, there were only drinks to be had back at the house in his honor. Marcus limited himself to one glass, unwilling to have a repeat of Norrington’s farewell party now that his changed body could not hold liquor so well as before, and Esca seemed to only take one because Uncle did. The nobleman barely sipped his and focused most of his attention on Alice as soon as she was brought into the room.

Harriet took the child half an hour later and could not be rebuked, for it was only fair to allow the grandmother a turn to dote. Esca surrendered the little girl reluctantly and soon after fell entirely out of conversation.

“I spoke to poor Mrs. Hiddleston this morning.” Harriet said when Marcus made mention of the scandal. “She has at last heard news of Tommy and Thor. They have wed and settled in London.”

“Has Thor found an occupation?” Sherlock asked.

“Some kind of clerk, I think. Oh but that will hardly keep Tommy as comfortable as he has been. Silly boy. He will come to regret his choice, I fear.”

“He would have been far more comfortable if he would have but allowed me time to introduce him to Mycroft.”

Sherlock sputtered into his cup. “ _Mycroft_?”

“Yes. Do you not think they would have been the darling picture of happiness out there on the moors? Hiddleston certainly would have brightened the place up.”

“Well, you are right there. Has my brother any notion you had such a scheme.”

“God no,” Marcus laughed, glancing at Esca only to find that he was not laughing with the rest of the group. He sat neatly arranging and rearranging the tassels of the pillow crushed beneath his elbow, his brandy glass sipped dry and still in hand.

“I do not object to the idea of finding my dear brother a boy. I believe it may be just what he needs.”

“With Kitty, Hiddleston, _and_ Levitt stolen from stock, we have few options,” Harriet said, clicking her tongue. “But let me think, there is Little Leto. He is a doll.”

Marcus lost track of the conversation as he moved casually to the seat next to his husband and touched his knee. Esca lifted out of his head as if waking from a dream and smiled around at all present but could offer no opinion on the topic, having no idea what it was. His grey eyes lit on Marcus, who had a singular realization that stole his breath.

Esca had looked at him in this way before. During the engagement, and later when Esca had sworn to aid him in the battle of society and they had suffered large balls and dinner parties with the best and richest around—Marcus remembered Lord Esca always turning this perplexing look upon him and having no answer to it. Now he did.

The only two times Marcus had ever witnessed Esca with company without making such a face had been in the presence of Cottia, Mycroft, and MacAvoy—and only because those three individuals had bothered Esca for but hardly an hour before the meeting ceased. Here the family had been converged all morning, and most of the afternoon.

 _Hide me, Marcus_ , those eyes said. Marcus squeezed his knee and winked. Then he stood, yawning quite loudly. “Is that the hour? Heavens. It is time I sit with my father in law for the evening. Esca and I have been reading to him before dinner. It is something I think we all look forward to.”

Within moments, after well wishes for the old man’s health had been given and received with heartfelt sincerity—Uncle did so personally to Cunoval, and came away from the room with tears in his eyes—the company was gone from the house. Esca had Alice once more, letting her curious little fingers tug on his whiskers.

“I am sorry I ruined your pleasant evening, my love.”

“You did not.”

“You could have sat with them all night and grown more lively by the hour. How do you do that? Does company not feed upon your energy like a vampire?”

Marcus wrapped his arms around Esca and Alice from behind and squeezed him. “I am sorry I was not more attentive to you. How long did you suffer? We must devise a code for the future, a way for you to communicate that you are finished within your limit of sociability for the day.”

“We communicated perfectly this evening. You knew exactly what was in my head with one look. It is so comforting, Marcus, that I could have lasted another hour if needed, with the just the thought that you understood me…you know me so well…better than anyone, my love. The best of all.”

Too choked to point out that it was Esca’s doing that made it so, for he put no effort toward letting anyone else comprehend his many facets of personality, Marcus changed the subject to one of exciting news he had realized hours ago.

“Do you know that tomorrow is the first of the month? We will be one payment closer. Only four months to go.”

"I think I had better sleep in a guest room tonight," Esca announced. The chivalrous suggestion left Marcus no choice but to behave properly in return. He offered knuckles to be kissed and then they tore themselves apart to sleep alone.

||||||||||

They made the mistake of arriving early to Hadrian's wall this time, and Marcus could not sit for so long on a horse. He tethered Appleseed to the tree and entertained himself by balancing on the wall and walking the shaded stretch of it with his arms out for balance. Esca asked him nicely not to injure himself but was then coaxed minutes later into displaying his skill on a horse, and upon Eagle, charged the wall and jumped over it, despite the mare's age and the wall's impressive height. The old horse had been named for a bird for a reason.

Marcus was still whistling and clapping, a little breathless with wonder at the inspiring display--anyone capable of controlling and understanding a beast as large and powerful as a horse well enough go up and over such an obstacle was the very definition of a hero in Marcus' book--when MacAvoy's bellowed greeting reached them from the crest of the hill. A few moments later, the trotting horse reached the wall just as Esca and his white horse did a second leap that deposited them safe and sound on the proper side of the wall.

"He does like to show off, doesn't he?" MacAvoy asked Marcus playfully. Marcus winked. "How is your nose?"

"As handsome as ever, clearly," the gentleman said, prompting a cackle from the ex soldier for the sheer confidence in such a remark. "But we will conduct money matters first today." With some fanfare including a short refrain of music which he hummed in key, McAvoy produced a purse of coins and tossed it at Esca who caught it and instantly frowned at the weight in his hand. "This is far more than usual."

McAvoy grinned. "Indeed, it is all that is owed. Two thousand pounds. With interest."

Esca blanched and Marcus reined Charlie hard enough to rear him slightly off the ground. McAvoy laughed. Esca dumped the purse into his hand---what would fit of it. He huffed. "James this is amazing. Why? How can you manage it?"

"I saw Cottia the other night, and she told me your hopes to clean up the family name as soon as possible and I only hope to speed that process for you where I can."

"How will you survive with this from the accounts? You needn't starve yourself, James, yours is not a debt I am in the least worried about. I know you will pay faithfully. Just as I know you handed me this surprise in hopes that I will forget the casual reference to your evening with my housekeeper."

"Yes but she also mentioned the old man's health. Esca, I am grieved to hear it for your sake. I know what he means to you. I can see that the imminent weighs greatly on you. Fear that he will not live to see his sins erased…my father died with his debt still hanging over him… I cannot have it on my conscious that your father dies so miserably, no. Not when it can be helped. We will not be as comfortable as we are accustomed, but we will survive. Better we suffer the sting of our debts than force a dying man to feel it for us. Please, take it. I know it is not much in the grand scheme but--" he stopped speaking for Marcus had vaulted from the wall. He threw his arms around the stranger gasping "you magnificent son of a bitch! Thank you! Thank you!"

"I...what?" He saw then the ashen expression and tears on Esca’s face. McAvoy’s bewildered smile dropped and he asked "What is it? What have I done?"

Marcus squeezed the man’s shoulder enough to cause him pain as Esca said "James. We had saved you for last. Your monthly payments had been all we lacked. I never imagined...."

"Your noble gesture has saved us four months of uncertainty."

McAvoy huffed and then laughed as Esca rung his hand in gratitude, declaring the day's boxing match canceled.

**|||**

Marcus gave Charlie a loving pat to the neck as the mother stallion ambled through the creek on the return from the wall. The coins of their final collection jangled merrily in Esca’s coat pocket. It was done. Not a single illegal penny was owed to them. No more threats. No more bad dreams. Nothing but honest work from this day forth. The effect on Esca was quite visible. The man practically floated out of his saddle, kicked Eagle into a gallop and whooped at the sky no less than three times simply to release his joy onto the world.

Laughing, breathless with love, Marcus kept up with ease thanks to Charlie’s youth and power next to poor Eagle, who had worn herself out playing at the wall. For the old mare’s dignity, no races were had between the mounts, but that did not stop the spirited pair from kicking up sod and making a few smaller jumps for old time’s sake. Charlie twitched and stamped, wanting to join in, but Marcus reigned in the beast in favor of simply watching Esca fly in true freedom.

They reached the stables where the stable boy insisted on doing his part and unsaddling the mounts himself for once. Their elated moods granted lenience and they surrendered their custom of performing the chore themselves in favor of running up to the house.

“Thank God for James McAvoy.” Esca said aloud, laughing. Marcus caught his hand and laced their fingers.

“He was, I think, only trying to match your goodness. He is a kind sort. I am comforted with the notion that such great men can be found in Brigantes.”

“This is the safe home you dreamed it to be, Marcus. It always has been, but now it shall always be so with no dark threat hanging over it.”

“What say you, my love?” Marcus asked softly as they stepped into the house. “Shall we slip upstairs before we are detected home?”

Grinning, Esca caught his lip between his teeth and shook his head. Marcus’ eyebrows went up. “It is all sealed. Your purging is _over_ , darling. Let us go to bed...”

“No,” Esca laughed. “I am excited to tell my father the good news. Let us find him, celebrate with him, and _then_ the matter will be sealed forever, and we can...” He seemed to have lost all breath and could not continue. Marcus grinned, and kissed his cheek, and went with him into the old man’s sick room.

It still had that unnamable smell, the heavy stillness that brought death to mind, though the wrinkled, pale man was propped upright against a mound of pillows, a stack of old letters spread across his lap.

“Father! Excellent news!” Esca said happily as he knelt by the bed.

“What is it, my boy?”

“Father, it is Esca.”

“I know who you are,” the old man wheezed, cackling a little as he tried to straighten the papers. “The twink’s grown a beard. It looks good on you, sa’am.”

“Thank you,” Marcus said, beaming. The old man’s gnarled, weak hands could barely manage, and so Marcus dutifully cleared the papers away and saw with a twist in his heart that they were love letters from the late lady Alice. He placed them carefully on the table where they would not be harmed.

“Father, we have just gone over the books, and we have good news.” He looked to Marcus, who took up the offer to deliver the blessed news,

“Esca and I have resolved it.”

The old man’s chest rose and fell, his deep blue eyes searching the middle distance beneath a crimped brow of confusion. “Resolved what?”

The first flicker of trepidation crossed Esca’s face, and he closed his hands around the claw like fist of the dying man. “You must understand, it was necessary to protect this family—we cannot have another incident that could endanger Alice. Marcus has helped me see that and so, we have closed the gates. The Hound operation is officially over. We collected the last shilling owed us this morning, and the estate is now fully legitimate.”

“Oh,” the old man said, voice small with surprise. “How is that possible? It can’t be.”

“It is,” Marcus assured, “we stopped fronting money three months ago. The boys have been hard at work collecting what is owed. Esca and I have managed the entire ordeal first hand, and it has finished, at last…”

He was met with silence. The old man had rolled his head to look out of the window. To Marcus’ critical eye, his breathing seemed more troubled than before. Fear wormed through his gut, and he prayed for the man’s strength. Esca, looking quite helpless, stroked his father’s knuckles as if to warm them, attempting to steal his attention. “Do you understand father? We not only have Marcus’ dowry, but a sizable profit for our troubles. It is enough that we will never be in trouble again. I have kept the horse trade as more than a front and it too brings in annual profit so that we needn’t even touch the fortune.”

A small, high pitched noise that turned out to be something midway between a laugh and a dry sob proceeded the old man’s wheezing voice, “What blessed news! God has heard my plea!”

“Father!”

With tears and clasped hands, the pair laughed and traded kisses in the way of a fortunate and his papa rather than two men, but it warmed Marcus’ heart so that he could not laugh. Warm tears trickled out of his eyes and he dashed them away, knowing in a divine flash that this was the moment to present the gift. “Sir, there is more—one moment!”

Sprinting from the room, Marcus went for the book of stories kept safely in a drawer. He brought it back to the sickroom, breathless from his run. “Here. It’s…It is done, sir… Your book. The book that I have been working on with you. I completed it and thought to make it a gift for your birthday as it is near, but since we are celebrating—“

The old man had been gesturing wordlessly, eagerly, and at last cried, “Let me see it! Hand it over, boy!” His gnarled hands eagerly snatching it; Marcus let it go from his hands, laughing at the deer like expression on Esca’s face, for he had had no notion of this little project between the two.

“What is this book, Marcus? Father, how have you gotten this past me?”

The old man cackled and he flipped through the words of his life. “Oh, that classifies as military secrets, son. Military secrets! Ha! With a twink! What an age to be alive!”

“Father, really,” Esca grumbled, taking Marcus’ arm as if to shield him from such talk. Marcus merely laughed. “How do you like it, sir? Will it do for your grandchildren?”

“What talk is this?” Esca asked. Marcus kissed his hand. “Your father’s gift to Alice. It was commissioned almost as soon as I bound my first journal.”

His breathing only becoming more labored, the old man cackled once again. “All the classic bed time stories for the little ones that I won’t get to meet—“ he coughed until his body shook, but waved aside the offer of water that Esca had instantly provided. “Name the boys after me, hm?”

“That was my intention,” Marcus promised. “I hope to have twins so that you and Uncle may be honored at the same time.”

The old man’s eyes sparkled, and after two attempts, managed to ask, “Oh, Aquila’s idea was it? That sounds like him!” He coughed some more, little agitations that appeared to hurt. Marcus took his father in law’s other hand. “Should we let you rest?”

“Hell no,” the old man said angrily. “I’m fine. Stay. Stay. We are celebrating my birthday!”

Marcus pursed his lips against the slip in time, the clouded confusion that had made the man suddenly misremember the point of this visit. But it could not be helped, and the long awaited birthday present upon his knee, the weakened mind had little else to grasp upon.

“Happy birthday, sir,” Marcus said sweetly, petting his soft white hair.

“Is this the story of the war horse in the quicksand?” Esca asked suddenly, for he had begun thumbing through the book and had stopped at a story midway through, face alight with childish glee. “Oh! I have nearly forgotten this one! What happened to the rider again? I can’t—“

The old man pulled the book from Esca, tutting, “Now, now, you have to start at the beginning.”

“But--“ Esca protested. Marcus spoke up. “I know! Let me fetch Alice and we will listen to them now, together, for her first reading of family history.”

“Splendid!” Esca cried.

Once the child was fetched and dinner arranged to be had around the bed, Marcus settled into a chair with Alice in his lap. She was old enough now to sit up and look at the world, and chewed her fist as she listened to her grandpapa’s rumbling voice read out his old tales. Esca had forgone his chair as soon as the food had been devoured and cleared away, so that, again quite lovely-like, he lay next to his father and listened with his eyes closed, a smile bowing his lips.

Marcus saw more than once Esca’s lips move along with the words and it stirred deep tides within the mother man to know that it was the very words that Marcus himself had copied down so many times that he knew them as faithfully. He kissed the top of Alice’s head, willing her to listen with her heart so that these precious words sank into her in the same way.

When his coughing began to interrupt the words too often, Esca volunteered to read on for them, and the old man relinquished the book without a fight. He reached for Alice’s cherub cheek, and Marcus placed her on the bed next to him so that he could tickle her quietly and allow her to slap and poke at him as she explored this new interesting room of the house. Marcus watched as he listened, letting his eyes fall closed so that he could see the words come to life. The dashing, brave soldier and his comical friends with their misadventures, but the best part were the sly jokes hidden for the adult mind, all of which seemed to occur to Esca for the very first time as he read, so that the nobleman laughed frequently. His laugh was so warm and musical.

When Marcus’ leg began to pain him for sitting too long in one attitude, he stood and made a trip to each window. The sun was now slating through the trees, and the heir tree seemed to be glowing. As the wind toyed with its weeping branches, and Esca’s voice caught on an elaborate sequence of swear words devised to thrill young boys who so rarely got to hear such language, Marcus thought he heard laughter somewhere in the house. The corners of his mouth tilted at the thought that not a single shadow could be found today, merriment and joy reigned.

Once he had had a nice look out of each of the three windows, the Swear Words tale had come to an end, and Marcus had watched the golden sunlight swell and fade against the willow so that its brilliant glow seemed to ebb from its leaves until it was just an old tree again.

Still smiling, Marcus turned from the glass and saw that Esca had closed the book and sat holding the hand of a dead man.

|||

 _Father in Heaven,_ Marcus thought with heavy devotion, _thank you for my child. The sight of her, the smell, her little hands; they take away the weight of the world like nothing else._ “How we are in need of you, Cubbie,” he whispered to her as they stood in the death room, looking at the willow. She was sitting on Marcus’ arm, draped over his shoulder, and probably drooling on his jacket, but he let her for the sake of keeping her close to his heart and his face.

Esca had been making sure prior arrangements were followed to the letter regarding Cunoval’s funeral. Outside the window, a rainstorm had broken for a clear night. The morning would be beautiful for the service. He paused in his aimless walk about the room to glance, uneasy at the corpse. Just as it had been with his own father, Marcus felt as if it was the body of a stranger lying there. He looked wholly different; a husk. The ghost of the man was gone, and Marcus fancied he had spirited to that mystical willow tree to meet his beloved Alice in the glow of a setting sun.

With a soft click of the latch, Nurse Sastica stepped lightly into the room with a low voiced offer to take the night watch so that the lords might find a few hours of rest. Marcus’ shift to watch over the body was at last ended.

“Lord Esca is in the parlor, sa’am.”

Marcus thanked her ardently for allowing him to take care of his husband in his time of need and went directly to him.

“Alice, Marcus,” Esca greeted when they had stepped through. A moment later he was at Marcus’ side, reaching for the baby. Esca was frightfully pale, and small-looking. Never had he seemed so young, frightened, and frail. Marcus surrendered the baby instantly, aware of her healing powers.

Like the mother man had done, Esca held the vibrant child close in both arms, rocking left to right on his feet to swing her like he always did, their faces pressed cheek to cheek. She squirmed and gurgled, but he did not let her go for a while more. Then he placed a lingering kiss to her pudgy little face before he sighed. “What a day.”

“I’m so sorry, Esca,” Marcus said. He’d worked on it all evening and had come up with only that to say. He felt like he could say it a hundred times more, but Esca made a face that told him it was better if he just stayed quiet about everything for a minute longer.

He continued to pet Alice’s soft hair and tickle her foot, but, be it a child’s intuition or Esca’s relentless attention, she was subdued into a mood more closely resembling his. He settled her in the cradle of his arms and the pair stared at one another for a good while, until Esca sniffed, and brushed away a tear.

“It is past her bedtime,” Marcus said gently. He rang the bell, and Cottia appeared within minutes to take her. The woman offered her condolences to Esca in a silent touch to his arm before taking Alice, and he nodded, his lips tight to stopper an oncoming cry.

“You should go to bed too,” Marcus coaxed gently, tugging on his elbow. “You need to lie down. You’re still in shock.”

The orphaned nobleman nodded mutely and they ascended the stairs together, Marcus feeling like he should be prepared to catch Esca should he swoon, and resisting the gallant urge to carry him, knowing just how much Esca would appreciate any of it.

“He was at peace, darling,” Marcus whispered.

“Thank God for it,” he said with the same automatic etiquette he had been using since it happened. It seemed Esca had no reserved strength to be anything more than what was expected. Because Esca made no move to undress before climbing into the bed, Marcus stopped him, and undressed him before helping him under the covers. Once shed down to his smalls as well, Marcus got comfortable on his side of the bed and snuffed out the candle.

In the sudden darkness, he felt alone until Esca moved into his arms, shaking.

“I’m here,” Marcus said instinctually, kicking himself for plunging them into the night when he himself had needed light in his darkest hour. He made a move for the candle, “I can relight—“

Esca’s sob rent the air, making Marcus’ voice jump back into his throat. He clutched the man tightly in alarm. “Shh, I’m so sorry, shhh, let me light a candle.”

Clinging to him, face buried in his chest, Esca shook his head and sobbed again, body racking with it. Water pricked Marcus’ eyes and he shifted so that he could hold onto Esca more comfortably in return. “A warm light will....shhh, warm light will make us feel better.”

“I can’t,” Esca choked, shuddering again with a sob that refused to be repressed. “Leave it, I—don’t—want it,” He shook with another wash of tears that soaked through Marcus’ shirt.

“All right,” Marcus complied instantly. “Whatever you want. Whatever you need. Just tell me.”

“I want my father back!” he sobbed, “I want one more day with him the way it was this evening! But he is gone, he is gone and I am frightened.”

Esca held onto him, voice a small thing in the dark as he debated heaven and hell--Marcus offered firm faith in their heavenly father and the old man’s reunion with Him, and even found the nerve to admit his whimsical fancy that the old pair of lovers had reunited under their special tree, and that it had been Lady Alice’s thrilled laughter that he had heard from even inside the house.

“Y-you honestly believe that?”

“Why not? This world is full of wonders, Esca. Such wonders we can never hope to understand.”

“Ghosts, visions, I…” the nobleman sounded dubious.

“I believe love is the greatest power there is. I know it sounds silly to say they walked the earth as spirits, had a rendezvous under the heir tree, but do you think, should I die first, that I will not be waiting for you here, at the end of the world? That our eternity in heaven would begin with our memories of paradise on earth?”

“God willing I be the next in this family to die. If I have to put another loved one in the ground…”

“Yes, God willing, you never go through this again. So promise me you will wait for me, you will meet me here and we shall go beyond together.”

“Marcus.” Esca wept until he fell to sleep. Marcus noted his even breathing just as the moon’s bright light faded to the dusk prior to dawn. The nobleman lay on his front with his arms tucked under as usual, except he was more or less on top of Marcus instead of the bed. It had been so long since they had managed to share a bed without shedding clothes that the occurrence felt brand new to Marcus, who grinned wetly.

The thought of this house not having a deaf, blind, retired old soldier shouting obscene words, making digs about their sex life every morning at breakfast, was disconcerting. Not once since coming here had Marcus envisioned such a future. And what of Nurse Sasstica? He must help her find a new position, find an elegant way to thank her for her dedication to her patient.

And with her now gone like the doctor who would be left here but the pair of them? It was the beginning of the rest of their lives together, as promised. All that remained to be looked forward to were the happy years of Alice’s growth--watching her become a beautiful young woman, win an engagement from a successful young man, enter into a loving marriage, even have children of her own.

And then of course there would be a fierce Cunoval son along somewhere…the exact medium of his and Esca’s sizes, the lad would be handsome and charming and rebellious as hell--oh, rebellious indeed. Marcus grinned crookedly at the thought. There would come a time when Esca would be grateful that Alice had tamer blood, for as reckless as the prince had always been, he was damp powder compared to the power packed into the Cunoval spirit.

He could hardly wait to see what such a child would look like, and the thought of Esca initiating a change in his body with the act of love sent a tremble through Marcus. Deviant thoughts filled his head as he imagined it until he could take it take it no longer. He stroked Esca’s back, whispering in his ear,

“If you will but wake, darling…wake up and see what day it is…Esca, my love, wake up. Today is the first day of the rest of our lives together. The past is sealed. We are free men.”

Instantly, the nobleman awoke, drawing breath and blinking blindly. “Free? Lord, you are right!”

“We have done it.”

“At last.”

He nuzzled his husband’s musky smelling neck and there was nothing in the world to say but, “I love you, Esca.”

“And I love you.”

Marcus stripped Esca bare, in a mood to study the man’s body. Every inch of his skin glowed white next to Marcus’ olive complexion. His bronze body hair, matted beneath his arms but curled on his chest in a pleasing nest. His nipples were flat and small, useless ornaments but highly sensitive. He possessed a shallow belly button crowning a thick trail of curling bronze hair that led to his groin, where his cock rested against his thigh. The mother man stroked there idly as if testing the machinery, and the organ rose dutifully to bow and await further instruction. Marcus grinned at the look of wavering patience in Esca’s grey gaze.

He was not finished with his study. The wings of Esca’s hips were chiseled and second only to his magnificent thighs. A life on horseback had gifted the nobleman with a pair of deadly haunches, thick and firm, nicely furred, but as luminescent as the moon.

In contrast, his knees were boney, angular joints, and his ankles looked quite delicate, though hairy, and his feet were large; complete with hairy toes, one of which stretched farther than the big toe. (The prince’s feet had been similar, and now Marcus unconsciously considered them Man Feet, for his own were more compact and square with evenly sized digits.) But even Esca’s strange, Celtic feet Marcus loved potently.

Reverence for this small, hard body had never been strongest—a deep pang of envy for its constancy pierced Marcus’ heart. Oh, but if _he_ could be so good; he might then actually deserve the Lord of Brigantes as a husband. Alas, all he ever did was deny his gender and lie to others, worry his mother, argue with his uncle, blindly follow the prince… give himself away… and then look at his behavior this past year alone. He had been so insufferable, so needy, selfish and arrogant.

All this time Esca had been slaving away to prove himself worthy of Marcus, and Marcus never did anything to prove himself worthy of Esca. Shame rattled in his chest alongside his heartbeat, and he broke their kiss, gasping for breath. He tried to find words but it was like trying to find air in the middle of drowning. There were no words as surely as there was not air beneath water.

He met Esca’s fiery eye—and found air, found the word, the word that said it all. It came as a whisper, hot air and devotion, “Esca.”

Slicked with oil, the head of Esca’s cock nudged at his slicked, stretched, and teased opening, and then in a single slow push, he sank to the hilt into the tight, burning heat of his body. He groaned as he did and then he _laughed_ so freely that it rang off the walls and his eyes met Marcus’.

Marcus, too, had grit out sound upon their union, a sound in pleasure as well as pain and he scrambled at first as if to get away. It was too much—Esca’s love, his body, his words, his heart, his laugh, his eyes. Too much.

 _God,_ Marcus thought wildly, _oh, God. Please. I’ll die I love him so much_.

…then die. The command came to him, a solution to his conundrum, in a stunning bloom across his mind. It instantly settled his anxiety, boosted his pleasure, and sank, like the heat of Esca’s lips on his skin, deep into his heart to become the very blocks that built him. Love him until it kills you.

Esca’s whole body was trembling, tensed, as he dared not move until Marcus had adjusted to him. He gripped Esca on either side of the head, those big ears slotting between his fingers to stick out along with tufts of his bronze hair. “Esca,” he said again, a whimper now, utter surrender.

Still holding his eye, a smirk on his kiss-swollen lips, Esca began to move inside of him.

 

 

**THE END**


	24. Epilogue

After further discussion on the matter of escaping the remnants of the past and seeking out a new life together, the decision to go abroad was made, but not without first convincing the Watsons to accompany them, the way paid so long as John acted as private physician to the family. This at once settled Esca's nerves to be so far away from the familiar as well as alleviated any guilt Marcus would have had in abandoning the very last Unusual in Brigantes. They made an extended family as they crossed the atlas to lands of untold wonder awaiting.

Having reestablished a connection long thought dead, Marcus procured an old sheik's palace, recently converted to English standards, as their home away from home. Sherlock and Marcus warred over the decorations until everything was just right, and John and Esca allied themselves and refused to be drawn into the madness so that a proper brotherhood between them was born.

Thoroughbred Englishmen, all of them, the Watsons and Esca burned in the Arabian sun. Esca's skin had a bright pink hue on his ears, nose, and face that had started to peel after a week in their new home. Marcus’ skin had darkened back to its original, olive hue, and according to Esca the color against the crisp white sheets and the sandstone walls of the room was so fetching that he could not find Marcus in the bed without freeing every inch of that beautiful skin.

Reclined on the new bed, naked, he studied the nobleman's posture as he stood sketching at the foot of the bed. After a day of looking for the perfect moment to deliver the news, Marcus chose now. With a smile, he purred, “Draw this shape now, darling. It shan’t last. You’ve gone and changed me.”

Esca glanced up from his work, choked, and dropped the pencil and sketch book. “I did?”

With a deep breath, the mother man attempted to seem idle about the thrilling news. “I think it was back in England. Either the house, or the hotel…” the nobleman sank slowly onto the bed and crawled up it, eyes wet,

“I remember…oh…they were both special,” Esca promised, sensing Marcus’ trouble in being unable to pinpoint the exact night, as he could do with Alice. “Every night with you is; it matters not when it happened.” With Marcus unconvinced and showing it, Esca continued, kissing him between thoughts, “Hm, let us see...either I changed you in our bed as you wept with joy, or I changed you against a wall as you giggled and played with my ears…” they both laughed and trembled at the combined memories. “Both were exceedingly passionate in their own ways with or without the knowledge of what has come of it. Marcus, _you are giving me another child_. I-I hardly know how to say thank you, I love you and- _I love you_.”

Once he had his husband naked as well, Marcus was surprised when Esca did not burrow between his knees, but straddled him amongst a quickened succession of kisses that gave away some nerves. Marcus grasped each of the lithe, hairy thighs caging his hips and stopped the kisses in silent question. Esca paused, coloring darkly about the ears, yet said nothing, only rutted his bottom against Marcus’ thickened manhood.

Marcus choked. “You wish to--?”

Esca nodded shyly, but in his eyes was a set determination, a turbid longing that set the fortunate’s heart to racing and took his breath. Esca’s lips were quivering as he kissed Marcus chastely. “I can think of no other way to display the depth of what I am feeling.”

In response, Marcus fumbled for the oil. So excited and nervous was he that he could hardly operate the simple contraption of a closed jar. Esca helped him, and Marcus made his first intrusion with his husband’s balls cupped in hand.

The pucker of muscle contracted tightly around his finger and Marcus looked up to see that Esca had his bottom lip snagged loosely between his teeth, eyes closed. Were he possessed of talent with a pencil, Marcus would have drawn this enchanting sight of his hard, mean husband as soft and timid as a school girl. With the excess oil running in driblets down his hand, Marcus inserted another finger, massaging in gently escalating circles. Esca’s fingers tightened on Marcus’ flushed skin and his body quaked, so Marcus knew he had found the place. He pressed again, reversing the massage as he added the final finger. Esca gasped and dropped his forehead to Marcus’ shoulder.

With his free hand, Marcus fumbled the jar again, obtaining more oil to slick his straining erection. Esca’s ruddy cock had three shiny tracks of seed running from the slit, and with another nudge Marcus watched a fourth bead of essence trickle out. It was time.

Balls still cupped in hand, Marcus brushed his swollen cock past his tired fingers into the wet opening. The passage was tight and after two tries to fit, they at last succeeded in forcing the head inside. Esca threw back his head, letting loose sounds of surprise and acute pain. The muscles spasmed around Marcus, flutters and pulses that made the mother man choke and shudder. His skin erupted in chill bumps and above him, Esca’s entire body was rigid, his voice kept breaking in more of those desperate sounds of agony, and Marcus felt Esca’s confidence waver.

“Darling, you have to relax—here, I have you, shh, just relax, darling,” Marcus wrapped his arms around the man clutched so intimately around him. He kissed tight lips and stroked tensed muscles in Esca’s back and sides; evidence of the man stubbornly fighting the pain. “Let go,” Marcus whispered urgently. “I have you, my love, just let go. It’ll pass quickly.” Breaths ripping in and out of his nose, Marcus tried not to move and provoke more cries of pain, though the lush flutter of heat around the head of his cock made it very difficult indeed. Esca’s body remained rigid for another moment and then with a stuttering whimper, he took in every last inch—a vice grip of fire that surged into every bone in Marcus’ body.

A sound rent from Esca very much like a sob and his body trembled weakly. Marcus lifted heavy arms to caress Esca’s sweeping spine, his sole focus the wet heat encasing him and what it represented. This was Esca’s inner world, this was his heart in the only physical way he could give it away. His lips mashed haphazardly over Esca’s skin. “Oh, Esca…it’s everything I imagined.”

“Hmm,” he trembled and laughed. “It is rather more than I had. Such pain—but maybe it is different for men.”

“I do not think so. Only you are not accustomed to it,” Marcus found Esca’s limp cock and began to stroke it back to life. When the hardness had returned, Marcus gently bumped his hips, making Esca gasp, eyes falling, hooded. Marcus smiled, “try moving,” he suggested.

The timid aura returned, only with a familiar edge as Esca committed himself to the success of the impossible endeavor. To see again the determination which had carried them both through Marcus’ change back reminded the mother man that it was all going to happen again. The precipitous emotions, the humiliating dry spells, and the endless nights of need—all of it this time with this proud man resolved to maintain his perfect track record no matter the extremes.

Esca lifted himself off Marcus (who caught his breath at the slow drag and release of pressure on his throbbing cock) and sank back down, body jerking, voice strangled as Marcus slid hot and hard against the right spot. He knew instantly that it was a sensation Esca liked, for the man took hold of Marcus’ hips and found a rhythm that allowed Marcus’ itching, throbbing need to slam into the tight, burning space as freely as his pounding heart demanded. Trapped beneath the writhing man, there was little Marcus could do but surrender to the pulls of pleasure, watch, and listen to the vulnerable sounds his cock forced out of Esca every time his pert ass slapped into Marcus’ lifting hips; Esca was never so vocal in the opposing position.

The noises were sometimes words; Marcus’ name and prayers. Then as the frenzy piqued, “Oh--God in heaven—mercy!” Esca cried as, his piston movements never faltering, he broke and the erection in Marcus’ fist bled hot stripes of seed all the way up to Marcus’ chin. The convulsion of muscles around Marcus finished him, and he too spilled. To Marcus’ crazed mind it felt as if the hot torrent could have easily been going into him instead of out; the heat and the flesh was indistinguishable.

They became distinguishable a moment later when, hissing slightly, Esca eased away from him, grimacing as his stiff legs straightened after such a rigorous exercise bent in half, just as he had often winced and groaned in exhaustion after placating the inane demands of a turbulent changed sex. He dropped away from Marcus toward the foot of the bed, crashing between Marcus’ knees at last, his ears at Marcus’ ankles, his ankles at Marcus’ ears.

Laughing, Marcus ran a hand down the hairy legs caging him, brushing in opposition to the hairs’ growth and getting a scratchy sound for it. “Darling? Where have you gone?”

Esca laughed and groaned as he shifted and rolled in the bed until he was lying properly next to Marcus. “I do not believe I had ever seen your face so red, Marcus. A vein stood out on your forehead at one point. I think you were forgetting to breathe.”

Marcus laughed. “I must have done, while you forgot to swallow your sounds as you normally do. I rather liked it….” They kissed and nipped at each other’s smiles for a time before it all settled down on Marcus what had just happened. “I had no idea you ever intended for us to actually switch.”

“Love does not only change the fortunate. We are all mutable to this degree.”

“Very well said,” Marcus praised, pecking him on the lips. "But it still stands that I shall be the most changed from our love. We need you as unmovable as ever if we are to survive this again."

"The uncertainties of our previous experience are gone. You will not be tormented with heartbreak or loneliness or fear ever again. This will be a glorious and fun challenge, one I will not be against facing many more times yet."

"Exactly how many?"

"As many as it takes for a son, but no more than six or seven."

"Six or seven! As if any man could survive that many changes."

"I have no doubt that you would manage that many and more splendidly." Chuckling, Esca rested on Marcus' chest and placed a hand on his abdomen, where the spark of new life burned as sure as the desert sands, ready to grow and change life again, but this time anchored in the fortune and fortitude of a rock solid marriage. Comforted for the first time since realizing he was changed again, and amused by his husband's notions of such a large family, Marcus' smile brightened into one of unmatched beauty. He then shared what would most likely be his final piece of sound judgment for many months,

"Regardless, I shall pray for a boy this time.”


End file.
